ALESSANDRO  MANZONL 
Photogravure  from  a  drawing  made  for  this  work. 


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The    Betrothed 

(I  Promessi  Sposi) 


By 

Alessandro  Manzoni 


With  a  Critical  and  Biographical  Introduction 
by  Maurice  Francis  Egan 


Illustrated 


*  •  • 

*  *  • 


New  York 
D.  Appleton  and  Company 

1900 


^00  /'^ 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY. 

iT/'  -i^  7  7  ( 

HCLHRY  MORSE  STEPHEN* 


•  «    * 


•  •     '.  * 


FAMOUS    AND    UNIQUE    MANUSCRIPT   ANt) 
BOOK   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

A  series  of  fac-similes,  showing  the  development  of  manuscript  and 
book  illustrating  during  4000  years. 


THE  PROCESSION  OF   THE    YOUNG  MOTHER. 

Miniature  from  an  illuminated  manuscript  of  Terence  belonging  to 
Charles  VI.  of  France.      The  costumes  are  those  of  Paris  at  the  end  of 

the  fourteenth  centurv. 


jnoeunjBfn  ^o  inarnqoiavab  ariJ  gniv/oria  .zaiimiz-o^l  lo  aahaa  A 


I  !   gnignobd  sanaiaT  lo  jqiiosrntBni  Bdifinrmi/IIi  ab  moii  aiuisiniM 
io  bns  3il3  ifi  anB*!  'io  aeorfj  31b  ge  onBillo  .IV  aahsrfO 


Julius  Bien&CaLilJi.X.Y. 


C      C     (,  I    i 


MANZONI'S   ''BETROTHED" 


>  ♦  ♦  ■« 


ALEXANDER  MANZONI,  who  is  best  remembered  by 
his  novel,  "  I  Promessi  Sposi,"  but  who  did  other 
things  worthy  of  remembrance,  was  born  in  Milan  in 
1785,  and  died  in  1873.  His  life  was  long  and  full.  He 
was  fortunate  in  his  parents.  His  father — Count  through  a 
privilege  which  Alexander  refused  to  claim — married  a 
daughter  of  that  Beccaria  who  was  one  of  the  first  Conti- 
nental writers  to  consider  the  question  of  crime  and  punish- 
ment from  a  humane  and  philosophical  point  of  view.  Al- 
exander thought  much  in  his  youth,  and  came,  like  Dante, 
to  hold  that  the  tyrant  deserved  the  same  punishment  as 
the  murderer;  but,  unlike  the  most  radical  of  his  compa- 
triots, he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  mete  out  the  punish- 
ment. He  believed  in  law  and^xirder;  though  the  ultra-con- 
servatives distrusted  him,  he  had  no  sympathy  with  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  French  Revolution  or  with  the  revolt  that  had 
in  it  the  germ  of  anarchy.  In  1808  he  married  Mile.  Louise 
Henriette  Blondel,  a  gentle  Swiss  blonde,  to  whom  he  never 
ceased  to  be  intensely  devoted.  His  life  was  uneventful.  His 
friends  might  have  said  of  him  as  others  once  said  of  Long- 
fellow, *'  Any  change  would  be  for  the  worse."  He  was 
essentially  a  man  of  letters,  and  he  loved,  after  the  manner 
of  Horace,  a  quiet  country  life;  he  saw  that  much  more 
might  be  done  for  Italy  than  the  exercise  of  futile  physical 
force;  good  ethics,  nobility  of  purpose,  needed  to  be  taught; 
the  vital  quality  of  a  religion  which  was  sinking  to  mere 
deism  or  perfunctory   ceremonial   needed  to  be   proclaimed 


111 


IV  MANZONI'S   BETROTHED 

without  violence.  By  his  words  and  his  example,  ManzonI 
appealed  to  the  best  qualities  of  the  Italian  head  and  heart. 
In  comparison  with  Silvio  Pellico  and  the  more  aggressive 
patriots,  Manzoni  seemed  indifferent  in  political  matters. 
The  only  reproach  made  against  him  was  that  he  was  not 
persecuted.  It  is  true  that  even  the  Austrian  Government 
would  have  honoured  him,  had  he  consented.  **  I  do  not 
understand,"  Mr.  Howells  says  in  his  "  Modern  Italian  Poets," 
'*  how  any  one  can  read  the  romance  and  the  dramas  of  Man- 
zoni without  finding  him  full  of  sympathy  for  all  Italy  has  suf- 
fered, and  a  patriot  very  far  from  resigned.  Under  such 
governments  as  endured  in  Piedmont  until  1848,  in  Lombardy 
until  1859,  in  Venetia  until  1866,  literature  must  remain  edu- 
cative, or  must  cease  to  be."  The  facts  of  his  life  are  his 
works.  There  is  little  to  be  said  of  him  beyond  what  he  has 
put  into  his  dramas,  his  poems,  and  his  one  great  romance. 

The  position  of  Alexander  Manzoni's  historical  novel,  "  I 
Promessi  Sposi "  (*'  The  Betrothed "),  as  an  Italian  classic, 
never  has  been  seriously  questioned,  even  by  those  critics 
among  his  countrymen  who  held  that  the  influences  that  pro- 
duced it  were  foreign.  It  is  evident  that  Manzoni,  in  his  ro- 
mantic dramas,  was  stimulated  by  the  example  of  Goethe 
and  Schiller  as  he  was  directed  in  the  methods  of  his  great  his- 
torical novel  by  Scott.  It  is  evident,  too,  that  while  the  motive 
of  "  The  Betrothed  "  is  essentially  patriotic,  it  is  not  revolu- 
tionary, it  is  rather  reactionary  or  conservative.  Here  we  have 
curious  paradoxes — a  novel  dealing  with  the  past  of  Italy,  in- 
tended to  excite  greater  love  for  Italy  among  Italians,  which  is 
the  result  of  alien  influences — a  novel  written  in  classical 
Italian  which  is  so  romantic  that  the  Italian  traditionists,  who 
adored  the  rules  of  Aristotle,  saw  in  it  belligerent  literary  radi- 
calism. Manzoni's  novel  and  his  dramas,  "  The  Count  of 
Carmagnola  "  and  '*  The  Adelchi,"  are  romantic  in  the  sense  in 
which  "  Gotz  von  Berlichingen  "  and  "Ivanhoe"  are  romantic. 
They  deal  with  Nature,  but  with  Nature  seen  in  the  past 
through  the  light  of  imagination.  Scott  was  a  rebel  against  the 
traditions  of  the  Queen  Anne  folk,  but  not  a  conscious  rebel; 


MANZONI'S  BETROTHED  V 

besides,  the  traditions  of  English  Hterature  are  natural  and  ro- 
mantic. He  among  us  who  should  return  to  the  unities  of 
Aristotle  would  find  the  splendid  names  of  the  past  arrayed 
on  the  opposite  side.  In  Italy  and  France,  Manzoni  and 
Hugo  revolted  against  all  the  great  who  had  gone  to  join 
Dante's  group  on  "  the  enamelled  green  "  of  the  terrace  of 
the  triumph  of  fame  in  the  Inferno.  In  the  preface  to  "  The 
Count  of  Carmagnola  "  (1820),  Manzoni  gives  his  reasons  for 
a  defiance,  which  Victor  Hugo  imitated  eight  years  later. 

The  past  of  Italy  had  been  looked  on  as  the  past  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  Augustus  and  Virgil  together  had  adopted 
Greece — or  rather,  appropriated  her — when  they  modelled  the 
''^neid  "  on  Homer,  who  was  Greece,  and  gave  it  to  the  world 
as  the  expression  of  Rome's  genius  and  her  past.  Dante  and 
Italy  had  adopted  Virgil,  and,  with  Virgil,  Aristotle,  and  even 
Seneca,  as  masters  of  literary  form.  To  throw  aside  the  "  uni- 
ties," to  vitalize  the  mediaeval  lay  figures  which  the  writers 
had  hitherto  varnished  with  a  classical  glue,  musty  and  clogged, 
was  to  be  both  bold  and  bad.  But  to  go  back  only  two  hun- 
dred years  (the  story  of  "  The  Betrothed  "  begins  in  1628)  and 
to  describe  life  in  all  its  petty  details,  to  mix  episodes  of  peasant 
life  with  realistic  pictures  of  the  plague,  to  paint  a  parish  priest 
as  neither  a  saint  nor  a  fiend,  to  represent  religion  as  a  con- 
servative force,  and  at  the  same  time  to  admit  that  a  priest 
might  be  more  or  less  than  the  average  man ;  to  be  heroic  and 
commonplace  in  one  and  the  same  chapter — was,  in  1825,  to 
shock  those  Italian  Arcadians  who  sat  in  the  midst  of  Greek 
theatrical  scenery  carefully  retouched  in  accordance  with  the 
more  modern  Latin  taste. 

The  connection  between  the  romanticism  of  "  The  Be- 
trothed "  and  Scott's  "  Heart  of  Midlothian  "  and  realism  is 
very  close.  Romanticism  is,  in  one  sense,  a  revolt;  in  this 
sense  "  The  Betrothed  "  is  romantic,  though,  compared  with 
Reade's  "  Cloister  and  the  Hearth  "  or  Dumas's  "  Three  Mus- 
keteers," it  is  extremely  quiet  in  its  flow  of  incidents. 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  Manzoni  to  Fogazzaro  and  Verga,  or 
to  the  criminologists  D'Annunzio  and  Nicefero;  but,  if  these 


vi  MANZONl'S   BETROTHED 

men  are  part  of  the  development  of  the  reaction  against  arti- 
ficiality, Manzoni's  sanity,  simplicity,  and  return  to  life  helped 
to  strengthen  the  development  which,  if  carried  too  far,  tends 
to  corruption,  or,  at  best,  substitutes  the  study  of  the  abnor- 
mal for  the  normal. 

When  the  Napoleonic  fury  had  passed  away,  Milan  was 
under  Austrian  domination,  and  only  the  foolish  poet  would 
cry  out  against  a  usurpation  which  at  this  time  was  irrevo- 
cable; and  Manzoni  was  never  a  foolish  poet.  He  had  too 
much  good  sense  to  risk  his  peace  and  his  usefulness  for  the 
sake  of  heroic  declamation.  After  his  marriage  he  turned  his 
attention  to  the  making  of  sacred  songs.  This,  too,  was  a  re- 
action from  the  Voltaireism  that  had  dominated  Italian  lit- 
erature just  before  and  some  time  after  the  French  Revolution. 
Goethe,  who  was  an  admirer  of  Manzoni,  has  great  praise  for 
these  lyrics;  they  put  the  teachings  of  theology  into  the  living 
language  of  the  people,  and  they  are  full  of  force  and  personal 
expression.  Manzoni,  even  after  the  publication  of  his 
hymns,  was  not  looked  on  with  high  favour  by  the  aristocrats 
of  the  monarchy  or  by  the  extreme  radicals;  he  proclaimed 
his  adherence  to  the  spiritual  power  of  the  Pope,  but  re- 
fused to  accept  the  dictum  that  the  States  of  the  Church  should 
be  inviolable.  The  Austrians  offered  him  honours,  which  he 
refused;  and  when  Victor  Emmanuel  wished  to  distinguish 
him,  he  escaped  the  decoration  by  declaring  that  from  the 
Austrians  he  had  preferred  honour  to  honours,  and  that  he 
was  still  of  the  same  opinion. 

The  point  of  view  of  the  best-known  writers  of  Italy  has 
been  largely  influenced  in  our  time  by  the  French  naturalistic 
school.  Gabriele  d'Annunzio  is  as  much  the  child  of  Flau- 
bert as  of  Lombroso.  Verga  and  Matilda  Serao  and  the  rest 
are  regarded  by  many  Italian  critics  as  the  result  of  foreign 
methods.  Early  in  this  century,  when  the  young  Italians 
turned  with  frantic  enthusiasm  to  Ossian  and  welcomed 
translations  of  Macpherson's  rhapsodies  into  their  language, 
a  renaissance  of  a  greater  spirit  and  the  necessity  for  a  strong- 
er language  were  announced.     The  Ossianic  phrase,  with  its 


MANZONI'S  BETROTHED  vii 

inversions,  compound  words,  and  brevity,  was  imitated  in  the 
Tuscan  tongue.  The  romanticists  were  even  willing  to  sacri- 
fice their  own  music  for  the  virile  cadences  of  the  new  utter- 
ances. History  repeats  itself,  and  the  Italians  of  to-day,  sur- 
feited with  music  and  naturalism,  demand  a  new  language. 
The  dissatisfaction  w4th  the  present  condition  of  Italian  lit- 
erature was  recently  expressed  by  Domenico  Oliva  and  Ugo 
Ojetti. 

But  the  remedy  seems  to  lie  where  Manzoni  found  it,  in  a 
rational  and_sympathetic  study  of  human  nature.  In  the 
storm  and  stress  of  the  romantic  revolt,  Manzoni,  like  Gold- 
smith in  the  classical  time,  goes  to  Nature  in  a  kindly,  sympa- 
thetic, even  optimistic  spirit.  The  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  was 
no  doubt  considered  "  vastly  low  "  by  those  who  preferred  to 
read  of  court  ladies;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  when  Manzoni 
made  a  peasant  lad  his  principal  character,  he  shocked  sensi- 
bilities accustomed  to  the  woes  of  the  Princess  of  Cleves  or  the 
amours  of  the  half-mythical  knights  and  queens  of  whom 
Italian  literature  is  full.  It  is  true  that  a  Cardinal  of  a  prince- 
ly house  flourishes  in  the  novel,  but  only  because  of  his  good- 
ness. The  politics  of  "  The  Betrothed  "  is  the  very  opposite  of 
the  politics  of  "  The  Prince."  Machiavelli's  theories  have  no 
place  in  Manzoni's  plan  of  patriotism. \]ToJbe_aL^gDod_citizen, 
one  muit  first  be  an  honest  man :  this  was  Manzoni's  prime 
axiom,  and  the  Italians,  after  terrible  and  corrupting  political 
experiences,  badly  needed  to  have  it  accentuated.  Insidious- 
ly, too,  the  author  who  would  not  bear  his  ancestral  title  of 
Count  shows  his  countrymen  that  caste  is  naught  compared 
with  personal  virtues  and  qualities,  and  that  adherence  to  duty 
atone  makes  the  man  worthy.  Don  Abbondio,  the  curate,  is 
alligure  not  merely  moulded  by  a  deft  hand,  but  torn  out  of 
life.  You  feel  that  he  is  real  in  his  weakness;  his  defects  are 
chronic  because  he  has  permitted  the  faults  of  his  tempera- 
ment to  neutralize  his  will  power;  his  sense  of  duty  exists,  but 
1  practice  In  self-indulgence  has  taught  him  to  hypnotize  it. 
I -on  Abbondio  does  no  evil  for  the  love  of  evil;  in  fact,  he 
•uld  prefer  to  do  good,  and  he  would  be  quite  willing  to  be 


vi  MANZONI'S   BETROTHED 

men  are  part  of  the  development  of  the  reaction  against  arti- 
ficiality, Manzoni's  sanity,  simplicity,  and  return  to  life  helped 
to  strengthen  the  development  which,  if  carried  too  far,  tends 
to  corruption,  or,  at  best,  substitutes  the  study  of  the  abnor- 
mal for  the  normal. 

When  the  Napoleonic  fury  had  passed  away,  Milan  was 
under  Austrian  domination,  and  only  the  foolish  poet  would 
cry  out  against  a  usurpation  which  at  this  time  was  irrevo- 
cable; and  Manzoni  was  never  a  foolish  poet.  He  had  too 
much  good  sense  to  risk  his  peace  and  his  usefulness  for  the 
sake  of  heroic  declamation.  After  his  marriage  he  turned  his 
attention  to  the  making  of  sacred  songs.  This,  too,  was  a  re- 
action from  the  Voltaireism  that  had  dominated  Italian  lit- 
erature just  before  and  some  time  after  the  French  Revolution. 
Goethe,  w^ho  was  an  admirer  of  Manzoni,  has  great  praise  for 
these  lyrics;  they  put  the  teachings  of  theology  into  the  living 
language  of  the  people,  and  they  are  full  of  force  and  personal 
expression.  Manzoni,  even  after  the  publication  of  his 
hymns,  was  not  looked  on  with  high  favour  by  the  aristocrats 
of  the  monarchy  or  by  the  extreme  radicals;  he  proclaimed 
his  adherence  to  the  spiritual  power  of  the  Pope,  but  re- 
fused to  accept  the  dictum  that  the  States  of  the  Church  should 
be  inviolable.  The  Austrians  offered  him  honours,  which  he 
refused;  and  when  Victor  Emmanuel  wished  to  distinguish 
him,  he  escaped  the  decoration  by  declaring  that  from  the 
Austrians  he  had  preferred  honour  to  honours,  and  that  he 
was  still  of  the  same  opinion. 

The  point  of  view  of  the  best-known  writers  of  Italy  has 
been  largely  influenced  in  our  time  by  the  French  naturalistic 
school.  Gabriele  d'AnnunzIo  is  as  much  the  child  of  Flau- 
bert as  of  Lombroso.  Verga  and  Matilda  Serao  and  the  rest 
are  regarded  by  many  Italian  critics  as  the  result  of  foreign 
methods.  Early  in  this  century,  when  the  young  Italians 
turned  with  frantic  enthusiasm  to  Ossian  and  welcomed 
translations  of  Macpherson's  rhapsodies  into  their  language, 
a  renaissance  of  a  greater  spirit  and  the  necessity  for  a  strong- 
er language  were  announced.     The  Ossianic  phrase,  with  its 


MANZONI'S  BETROTHED  vii 

inversions,  compound  words,  and  brevity,  was  imitated  in  the 
Tuscan  tongue.  The  romanticists  were  even  wilHng  to  sacri- 
fice their  own  music  for  the  virile  cadences  of  the  new  utter- 
ances. History  repeats  itself,  and  the  Italians  of  to-day,  sur- 
feited with  music  and  naturalism,  demand  a  new  language. 
The  dissatisfaction  with  the  present  condition  of  Italian  lit- 
erature was  recently  expressed  by  Domenico  Oliva  and  Ugo 
Ojetti. 

But  the  remedy  seems  to  lie  where  Manzoni  found  it,  in  a 
rational  and  ^sympathetic  study  of  human  nature.  In  the 
storm  and  stress  of  the  romantic  revolt,  Manzoni,  like  Gold- 
smith in  the  classical  time,  goes  to  Nature  in  a  kindly,  sympa- 
thetic, even  optimistic  spirit.  The  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  was 
no  doubt  considered  "  vastly  low  "  by  those  who  preferred  to 
read  of  court  ladies;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  when  Manzoni 
made  a  peasant  lad  his  principal  character,  he  shocked  sensi- 
bilities accustomed  to  the  woes  of  the  Princess  of  Cleves  or  the 
amours  of  the  half-mythical  knights  and  queens  of  whom 
Italian  literature  is  full.  It  is  true  that  a  Cardinal  of  a  prince- 
ly house  flourishes  in  the  novel,  but  only  because  of  his  good- 
ness. The  politics  of  *'  The  Betrothed  "  is  the  very  opposite  of 
the  politics  of  "  The  Prince."  Machiavelli's  theories  have  no 
place  in  Manzoni's  plan  of  patriotism. ^[ToJbe_aLg;ood_dtizen, 
one  mu^  first  be  an  honest  man:  this  was  Manzoni's  prime 
axiom,  and  the  Italians,  after  terrible  and  corrupting  political 
experiences,  badly  needed  to  have  it  accentuated.  Insidious- 
ly, too,  the  author  who  would  not  bear  his  ancestral  title  of 
Count  shows  his  countrymen  that  caste  is  naught  compared 
with  personal  virtues  and  qualities,  and  that  adherence  to  duty 
alone  makes  the-raaiCworthy.  Don  Abbondio,  the  curate,  is 
a^figure  not  merely  moulded  by  a  deft  hand,  but  torn  out  of 
life.  You  feel  that  he  is  real  in  his  weakness;  his  defects  are 
chronic  because  he  has  permitted  the  faults  of  his  tempera- 
ment to  neutralize  his  will  power;  his  sense  of  duty  exists,  but 
practice  in  self-indulgence  has  taught  him  to  hypnotize  it. 
r^on  Abbondio  does  no  evil  for  the  love  of  evil;  in  fact,  he 
>uld  prefer  to  do  good,  and  he  would  be  quite  willing  to  be 


viii  MANZONI'S  BETROTHED 

the  servant  of  duty,  did  duty  not  demand  the  sacrifice  of  per- 
sonal ease.  Manzoni's  picture  of  Don  Abbondio  is  wrought 
with  sad  sincerity,  yet  here  and  there  is  a  touch  of  unexag- 
gerated  humour.  And  the  picture  of  the  priest  who  had 
adopted  his  calHng  not  as  a  vocation,  but  as  an  avocation, 
is  painted  with  an  insight  which  would  seem  almost  toler- 
ant, if  the  author's  ethical  perceptions  were  not  so  sternly 
clear. 

'  In  no  history  can  a  more  convincing  sketch  of  the  condi- 
tion of  Italy  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  be 
found  than  in  the  first  chapter  of  this  novel,  in  which  the  back- 
ground for  the  character  of  Don  Abbondio  is  so  very  care- 
fully painted. '  For  sixty  years  the  curate  had  contrived  to  lead 
a  peacefully  selfish  life  by  being  neutral  in  all  things;  he  had 
not  the  temptation  that  a  less  prudent  man  might  have  had  to 
resist  the  attacks  of  might  against  right.  The  law  was  impo- 
tent; yet  a  strong  man,  unf earing,  might  enforce  as  well  as 
defy  the  law.  Sanctuaries  and  asylums — the  Christian  sub- 
stitutes for  the  Hebraic  cities  of  refuge — protected  the  guilty, 
and  then  there  were  the  innumerable  privileges  of  the  classes. 
"  The  proclamations,"  Manzoni  says,  "  were  efficient,  it  is 
true,  in  fettering  and  embarrassing  the  honest  man,  who  had 
neither  power  in  himself  nor  protection  from  others;  inas- 
much as,  in  order  to  reach  all  persons,  they  subjected  the 
movements  of  every  private  individual  to  the  arbitrary  will  of 
a  thousand  magistrates  and  executive  officers.  But  he  who 
before  the  commission  of  his  crime  had  prepared  himself  a 
refuge  in  some  convent  or  palace  where  bailiffs  never  dared 
to  enter,  or  who  simply  wore  a  livery  that  secured  in  his  de- 
fence the  vanity  or  the  interest  of  a  powerful  family — such  a 
one  was  free  in  his  actions,  and  could  laugh  to  scorn  every 
proclamation."  /  Don  Rodrigo,  one  of  the  privileged  class,  is 
practically  irresponsible  so  long  as  he  does  not  come  in  con- 
tact with  a  man  or  a  group  stronger  than  he.  It  was  a  natural 
thing  for  him,  knowing  as  he  did  the  character  of  Don  Abbon- 
dio, to  intimidate  the  priest  into  a  flagrant  neglect  of  his  duty. 
This  duty  was  to  perform  the  marriage  ceremony  for  Renzo 


MANZONI'S   BETROTHED  ix 

Tramaglino  and  Lucia  Mondella.  The  bravoes,  the  emissa- 
ries of  Don  Rodrigo,  perform  their  task  with  neatness  and  de- 
spatch. It  is  not  only  **  suggested  "  to  Don  Abbondio  that  the 
marriage  must  not  take  place,  but  the  bravoes  insist  that  the 
priest  shall  discover  a  way  of  preventing  it.  This  is  like  lash- 
ing a  new  wound.  Don  Abbondio,  discovering  that  the  priv- 
ileges of  his  class  do  not  protect  him,  is  willing  to  compromise 
quietly  with  his  conscience;  but  to  be  expected  to  invent  a 
method  and  put  this  method  into  execution  is  too  much!  He 
courteously  asks  for  further  "  suggestions."  The  bravoes  de- 
cline to  take  the  initiative  from  a  man  who  understands  Latin. 
Like  the  companions  of  Horatio,  in  Hamlet,  they  fancy  that 
the  Latinists  oug-ht  to  lead.     . 

"  Don  Abbondio,  il  bet-tore  se  n'e  gia  avveduto,  non  era 
nato  con  un  cuor  di  leone  "  (as  the  reader  will  perceive,  was 
not  born  with  a  lion's  heart),  Manzoni  remarks.  And  his  sys- 
tem of  neutrality  would  have  failed  him  here,  even  if  the  reader 
had  not  been  so  plainly  shown  that  he  was  not  born  with  the 
courage  of  a  lion.  He  has  not  even  the  courage,  so  debilitated 
has  his  character  become,  to  assume  the  privileges  of  his 
class.  Perpetua,  his  housekeeper,  is  admirably  drawn,  and 
is  the  precursor  of  many  of  her  type  in  romance  literature. 
Her  sympathy  is  not  unmixed  with  that  kind  of  analysis  which 
makes  even  the  tenderest  condolences  exasperating.  She 
ought  to  know  that  Don  Abbondio,  being  a  man,  does  not  at 
this  moment  want  cold,  hard,  reasonable  advice,  though  he 
pretends  that  he  does. 

"  My  opinion  is,"  says  Perpetua,  "  that,  as  everybody  says, 
our  Archbishop  is  a  saint,  a  man  of  courage  (uomo  di  polso), 
and  not  to  be  frightened  by  an  ugly  phiz,  and  will  take  pleas- 
ure in  upholding  a  curate  against  one  of  these  tyrants;  I 
should  say,  and  do  say,  that  you  had  better  write  him  a  hand- 
some letter  to  inform  him  as  how " 

"  Will  you  be  silent?  Will  you  be  silent?  "  demands  the 
wretched  curate.  "  Is  this  advice  to  oflfer  a  poor  man? 
When  I  get  a  bullet  in  my  side — God  preserve  me! — will  the 
Archbishop  take  it  out?" 


X  MANZONI'S   BETROTHED 

Perpetua  persists  in  preaching  courage,  but  without  effect, 
and  Don  Abbondio  goes  to  rest — a  Httle  rest — only  to  wake 
without  plans,  and  with  a  leaden  heart. 

The  results  of  the  curate's  cowardice  enabled  Manzoni  to 
make  his  book.  The  simplicity  and  honesty  of  Renzo  and 
the  womanly  fidelity  of  Lucia  are  charming.  The  picture  of 
these  two  lovers  is  done  most  sympathetically.  They  are  not 
a  swan  and  a  nymph  of  the  classical  school,  or  abnormal  ani- 
mals of  the  naturalistic  section.  They  never  lose  faith  or 
hope.  Renzo's  impulsiveness  is  the  quality  of  the  normal 
man;  he  is  for  action;  he  has  not  the  scruples  of  Lucia;  he  is 
capable  of  jealousy,  too,  but  his  jealousy  is  as  evanescent  as  it 
is  unreasonable. 

The  learned  Doctor  Azzecca-Garbugli,  to  whom  Renzo 
goes,  holding  the  votive  fowls  by  their  necks,  is  a  quack  typical 
of  a  time  of  quackery.  Later,  this  species  culminated,  just  be- 
fore everybody  began  to  dabble  in  the  natural  sciences,  in 
Joseph  Balsamo,  Count  Cagliostro.  Manzoni's  delicacy  in 
treating  this  scene  is  not  in  the  usual  Italian  huifo  style;  one  of 
his  finest  artistic  qualities  is  his  reticence,  which  saves  him  from 
all  exaggeration.  The  episode  of  Fra  Goldino  and  the  nuts  is 
well  done,  and  Lucia's  shrewdness  in  loading  him  with  alms 
is  delightfully  characteristic.  The  three  clerics  in  "  The  Be- 
trothed "  will  repay  study;  they  are  figures  that  can  not  be  de- 
tached from  their  social  surroundings.  Father  Cristoforo's 
story  is  not  singular  in  Italian  annals;  crimes  like  his  and 
conversions  like  his  were  common.  St.  Francis  d'Assisi  had 
not  sinned,  but  he  had  enjoyed  the  good  things  of  the  world 
as  Father  Cristoforo  had  done.  And  the  vengeance  of  the 
proud  nobles  whose  relative  Cristoforo  had  killed  would 
have  followed  the  murderer  to  the  end  of  the  world,  had  he  not 
given  up  the  world  in  penitence.  Having  wilfully  reduced 
himself  to  poverty,  with  the  coarse  ro])e  and  waist-rope  of 
the  mendicant  friar  about  him,  he  entered  the  hall  of  the  noble 
whose  brother  he  had  killed.  The  assemblage  was  large  and 
brilliant;  the  host  stood,  with  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword, 
waiting  for  the  reparation.     Cristoforo  knelt  and  acknowl- 


h 

$,  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING   PAGE 

<^ESSANDRO   MANZONI Frontispiece 

•^Photogravure  from  a  drawing 

•E  Procession  of  the  Young  Mother       .       .       .       .       ii 

Illuminated  miniature  from  a  fifteenth-century  manuscript 

Ce  Expulsion  from  Eden xiv 

|j Illustration  from  a  manuscript  copy  of  a  work  by  Boccaccio 

•■KE  ComO t 44 

*  Photogravure  from  a  painting  by  Clarkson  Stanfield 


t 


LAN  Cathedral 226 

.  Photogravure  from  a  photograph 

p.RDINAL   FEDERIGO   BORROMEO 314 

J'  Photogravure  from  a  drawing 

^  THE  Cottage 568 


t 

\\ 

i} 


a: 

k\ 

ei 


Photogravure  from  an  engraving 

XV 


THE   BETROTHED 

'  CHAPTER    I 

THAT  branch  of  the  lake  of  Como  which  extends  to- 
ward the  south,  is  enclosed  by  two  unbroken  chains  of 
mountains,  which,  as  they  advance  and  recede,  diversify 
its  shores  with  numerous  bays  and  inlets.  Suddenly  the 
lake  contracts  itself,  and  takes  the  course  and  form  of  a 
river,  between  a  promontory  on  the  right,  and  a  wijle  open 
shore  on  the  opposite  side.  The  bridge  which  there  joins 
the  two  banks  seems  to  render  this  transformation  more  sen- 
sible to  the  eye,  and  marks  the  point  where  the  lake  ends,  and 
the  Adda  again  begins — soon  to  resume  the  name  of  lake, 
where  the  banks,  receding  afresh,  allow  the  water  to  extend 
and  spread  itself  in  new  gulfs  and  bays. 

The  open  country,  bordering  the  lake,  formed  of  the  allu- 
vial deposit  of  three  great  torrents,  reclines  upon  the  roots 
of  two  contiguous  mountains,  one  named  San  Martino,  the 
other,  in  the  Lombard  dialect,  //  Resegone,  because  of  its  many 
peaks  seen  in  profile,  which  in  truth  resemble  the  teeth  of  a 
saw;  so  much  so,  that  no  one  at  first  sight,  viewing  it  in  front 
(as,  for  example,  from  the  northern  bastions  of  Milan),  could 
fail  to  distinguish  it,  by  this  simple  description,  from  the 
other  mountains  of  more  obscure  name  and  ordinary  form  in 
that  long  and  vast  chain.  For  a  considerable  distance  the 
country  rises  with  a  gentle  and  continuous  ascent:  afterward 
it  is  broken  into  hill  and  dale,  terraces  and  elevated  plains, 
formed  by  the  intertwining  of  the  roots  of  the  two  mountains, 
and  the  action  of  the  waters.  The  shore  itself,  intersected  by 
the  torrents,  consists  for  the  most  part  of  gravel  and  large 
flints;  the  rest  of  the  plain,  of  fields  and  vineyards,  inter- 
spersed with  towns,  villages,  and  hamlets:  other  parts  are 
clothed  with  woods,  extending  far  up  the  mountain. 


2  MANZONI 

Lccco^  the  principal  of  these  towns,  giving  its  name  to 
the  territory,  is  at  a  short  distance  from  the  bridge,  and  so 
close  upon  the  shore,  that,  when  the  waters  are  high,  it  seems 
to  stand  in  the  lake  itself.  A  large  town  even  now,  it  prom- 
ises soon  to  become  a  city.  At  the  time  the  events  happened 
which  we  undertake  to  recount,  this  town,  already  of  consider- 
able importance,  was  also  a  place  of  defence,  and  for  that  rea- 
son had  the  honour  of  lodging  a  commander,  and  the  advan- 
tage of  possessing  a  fixed  garrison  of  Spanish  soldiers,  who 
taught  modesty  to  the  damsels  and  matrons  of  the  country; 
bestowed  from  time  to  time  marks  of  their  favour  on  the 
shoulder  of  a  husband  or  a  father;  and  never  failed,  in  au- 
tumn, to  disperse  themselves  in  the  vineyards,  to  thin  the 
grapes,  and  lighten  for  the  peasant  the  labours  of  the  vintage. 

From  one  to  the  other  of  these  towns,  from  the  heights 
to  the  lake,  from  one  height  to  another,  down  through  the 
little  valleys  which  lay  between,  there  ran  many  narrow  lanes 
or  mule-paths  (and  they  still  exist),  one  while  abrupt  and 
steep,  another  level,  another  pleasantly  sloping,  in  most 
places  enclosed  by  walls  built  of  large  flints,  and  clothed  here 
and  there  with  ancient  ivy,  which,  eating  with  its  roots  into 
the  cement,  usurps  its  place,  and  binds  together  the  wall  it 
renders  verdant.  For  some  distance  these  lanes  are  hidden 
and  as  it  were  buried  between  the  walls,  so  that  the  passenger, 
looking  upward,  can  see  nothing  but  the  sky  and  the  peaks 
of  some  neighbouring  mountain:  in  other  places  they  are 
terraced:  sometimes  they  skirt  the  edge  of  a  plain,  or  project 
from  the  face  of  a  declivity,  like  a  long  staircase,  upheld  by 
walls  which  flank  the  hill-sides  like  bastions,  but  in  the  path- 
way rise  only  the  height  of  a  parapet — and  here  the  eye  of  a 
traveller  can  range  over  varied  and  most  beautiful  prospects. 
On  one  side  he  commands  the  azure  surface  of  the  lake,  and 
the  inverted  image  of  the  rural  banks  reflected  in  the  placid 
wave;  on  the  other,  the  Adda,  scarcely  escaped  from  the 
arches  of  the  bridge,  expands  itself  anew  into  a  little  lake, 
then  is  again  contracted,  and  prolongs  to  the  horizon  its 
bright  windings;  upward — the  massive  piles  of  the  moun- 
tains, overhanging  the  head  of  the  gazer;  below — the  culti- 
vated terrace,  the  champaign,  the  bridge;  opposite — the  fur- 
ther bank  of  the  lake,  and,  rising  from  it,  the  mountain 
boundary. 

Along  one  of  these  narrow  lanes,  in  the  evening  of  the 
7th  of  November,  in  the  year  1628,  Don  Abbondio,  .... 
curate  of  one  of  the  towns  alluded  to  above,  was  leisurely  re- 
turning home  from  a  walk  (our  author  does  not  mention  the 


THE   BETROTHED  3 

name  of  the  town — two  blanks  already !).  He  was  quietly  re- 
peating his  office,  and  now  and  then,  between  one  psalm  and 
another,  he  would  shut  the  breviary  upon  the  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand,  keeping  it  there  for  a  mark;  then,  putting  both 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  the  right  (with  the  closed  book) 
in  the  palm  of  the  left,  he  pursued  his  way  with  downcast 
eyes,  kicking  from  time  to  time  toward  the  wall  the  flints 
which  lay  as  stumbling-blocks  in  the  path.l  Thus  he  gave 
more  undisturbed  audience  to  the  idle  thoughts  which  had 
come  to  tempt  his  spirit,  while  his  lips  repeated,  of  their  own 
accord,  his  evening  prayers.  ^Escaping  from  these  thoughts, 
he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  mountain  which  rose  opposite;  and 
mechanically  gazed  at  the  gleaming  of  the  scarcely  set  sun, 
which,  making  its  way  through  the  cliffs  of  the  opposite  moun- 
tain, was  thrown  upon  the  projecting  peaks  in  large  unequal 
masses  of  rose-coloured  light.  The  breviary  open  again,  and 
another  portion  recited,  he  reached  a  turn,  where  he  always 
used  to  raise  his  eyes  and  look  forward;  and  so  he  did  to-day. 
After  the  turn  the  road  ran  straight  forward  about  sixty  yards, 
and  then  divided  into  two  lanes,  Y-fashion — the  right-hand 
path  ascended  toward  the  mountain,  and  led  to  the  parson- 
age:  the  left<branch  descended  through  the  valley  to  a  tor- 
rent: and  on  this  side  the  walls  were  not  higher  than  about 
two  feet.  The  inner  walls  of  the  two  ways,  instead  of  meet- 
ing so  as  to  form  an  angle,  ended  in  a  little  chapel,  on  which 
were  depicted  certain  figures,  long,  waving,  and  terminating 
in  a  point.  ;<  These,  in  the  intention  of  the  artist,  and  to  the 
eyes  of  the  neighbouring  inhabitants,  represented  flames. 
Alternately  with  the  flames  were  other  figures — indescribable, 
meant  for  souls  in  purgatory,  souls  and  flames  of  brick-col- 
our on  a  grey  ground  enlivened  with  patches  of  the  natural 
wall,  where  the  plaster  was  gone.  The  curate,  having  turned 
the  corner,  and  looked  forward,  as  jvvas  his  custom,  tow^ards 
the  chapel,  beheld  an  unexpected  sight,  ahdone  he  would 
not  willingly  have  seen.  Two  men,  one  opposite  the  other, 
were  stationed  at  the  confluence,  so  to  say,  of  the  two  ways : 
■one  of  them  was  sitting  across  the  low  wall,  with  one  leg  dan- 
gling on  the  outer  side, 'and  the  other  supporting  him  in  the 
path:  his  companion  was  standing  up,  leaning  against  the 
wall,  with  his  arms  crossed  on  his  breast.  Their  dress,  their 
carriage,  and  so  much  of  their  expression  as  could  be  distin- 
guished at  the  distance  at  which  the  curate  stood,  left  no 
doubt  about  their  condition.  Each  had  a  green  net  on  his 
head,  which  fell  upon  the  left  shoulder,  and  ended  in  a  large 
tassel.     Their  long  hair,  appearing  in  one  large  lock  upon  the 


4  MANZONI 

forehead:  on  the  upper  Hp  two  long  mustachios,  curled  at 
the  end:  their  doublets,  confined  by  bright  leathern  girdles, 
from  which  hung  a  brace  of  pistols:  a  little  horn  of  powder, 
dangling  round  their  necks,  and  falling  on  their  breasts  like 
a  necklace:  on  the  right  side  of  their  large  and  loose  panta- 
loons, a  pocket,  and  from  the  pocket  the  handle  of  a  dagger: 
a  sword  hanging  on  the  left,  with  a  large  basket-hilt  of  brass, 
carved  in  cipher,  polished  and  gleaming: — all,  at  a  glance, 
discovered  them  to  be  individuals  of  the  species  bravo. 

This  order,  now  quite  extinct,  was  then  most  flourishing 
in  Lombard}',  and  already  of  considerable  antiquity.  Has 
any  one  no  clear  idea  of  it?  Here  are  some  authentic  sketch- 
es, which  may  give  him  a  distinct  notion  of  its  principal 
characteristics,  of  the  means  put  in  force  to  destroy  it,  and  of 
its  obstinate  vitality. 

On  the  8th  of  April,  1583,  the  most  Illustrious  and  Ex- 
cellent Signor  Don  Carlo  d'Aragon,  Prince  of  Castelvetrano, 
Duke  of  Terranuova,  Marquis  of  Avola,  Count  of  Burgeto, 
grand  Admiral,  and  grand  Constable  of  Sicily,  Governor  of 
Milan,  and  Captain-General  of  His  Catholic  Alajesty  in  Italy, 
''  being  fully  informed  of  the  intolerable  misery  in  which  this 
city  of  ]\Iilan  has  lain,  and  does  lie,  by  reason  of  bravoes  and 
vagabonds,"  publishes  a  ban  against  them,  *'  declares  and  de- 
fines all  those  to  be  included  in  this  ban,  and  to  be  held  bra- 
voes and  vagabonds,  who,  whether  foreigners  or  natives,  have 
no  occupation,  or  having  it  do  not  employ  themselves  in  it 
....  but  without  salary,  or  with,  engage  themselves  to  any 
cavalier  or  gentleman,  officer  or  merchant  ....  to  render 
them  aid  and  service,  or  rather,  as  may  be  presumed,  to  lay 
wait  against  others  .  .  .  ."  all  these  he  commands  to  evacuate 
the  country  within  the  term  of  six  days,  threatens  the 
galleys  to  the  refractory,  and  grants  to  all  officials  the  most 
strangely  ample  and  indefinite  power  of  executing  the  order. 
But  the  following  year,  on  the  12th  of  April,  this  same  Sig- 
nor, perceiving  "  that  this  city  is  completely  full  of  the  said 
bravoes  ....  returned  to  live  as  they  had  lived  before,  their 
customs  wholly  unchanged,  and  their  numbers  undimin- 
ished," issues  another  hue  and  cry,  more  vigorous  and 
marked,  in  which,  among  other  ordinances,  he  prescribes — 
"  That  whatsoever  person,  as  well  an  inhabitant  of  this  city 
as  a  foreigner,  who,  by  the  testimony  of  two  witnesses,  should 
appear  to  be  held  and  commonly  reputed  a  bravo,  and  to 
have  that  name,  although  he  cannot  be  convicted  of  having 
committed  any  crime  ....  for  this  reputation  of  being  a 
bravo  alone,  without  any  other  proof,  may,  by  the  said  judges, 


THE   BETROTHED  5 

and  by  every  individual  of  them,  be  put  to  the  rack  and  tor- 
ture, for  process  of  information  ....  and  although  he  con- 
fess no  crime  whatever,  notwithstanding,  he  shall  be  sent  to 
the  galleys  for  the  said  three  years,  for  the  sole  reputation 
and  name  of  bravo,  as  aforesaid."  All  this  and  more  which 
is  omitted,  because  *'  His  Excellency  is  resolved  to  be  obeyed 
by  every  one." 

At  hearing  such  brave  and  confident  words  of  so  great  a 
Signor,  accompanied  too  with  such  penalties,  one  feels  much 
inclined  to  suppose  that,  at  the  echo  of  their  rumblings,  all 
the  bravoes  had  disappeared  for  ever.  But  the  testimony  of 
a  Signor  not  less  authoritative,  nor  less  endov/ed  with  names, 
obliges  us  to  believe  quite  the  contrary.  The  most  Illus- 
trious and  most  Excellent  Signor  Juan  Fernandez  de  Velasco, 
Constable  of  Castile,  Grand  Chamberlain  of  His  Majesty, 
Duke  of  the  city  of  Frias,  Count  of  Haro  and  Castelnovo, 
Lord  of  the  House  of  Velasco,  and  that  of  the  Seven  Infantas 
of  Laura,  Governor  of  the  State  of  Milan,  etc.,  on  the  5tli  of 
June^  I593>  be  also,  fully  informed  of  *'  how  much  loss  and 
destruction  ....  bravoes  and  vagabonds  are  the  cause,  and 
of  the  mischief  such  sort  of  people  effects  against  the  public 
weal,  in  despite  of  justice,"  warns  them  anew,  that,  within  the 
term  of  six  days,  they  are  to  evacuate  the  country,  repeating, 
almost  word  for  word,  the  threats  and  penalties  of  his  pred- 
ecessor. On  the  23rd  of  May,  in  a  subsequent  year,  1598, 
"  being  informed,  with  no  little  displeasure  of  mind,  that 
....  every  day,  in  this  city  and  state,  the  number  of  these 
people  "  (bravoes  and  vagabonds)  ''  is  on  the  increase,  and  day 
and  night  nothing  is  heard  of  them  but  murder,  homicide, 
robbery  and  crimes  of  every  kind,  for  which  there  is  greater 
facility,  because  these  bravoes  are  confident  of  being  sup- 
ported by  their  great  employers"  ....  he  prescribes  anew 
the  same  remedies,  increasing  the  dose,  as  men  do  in  obsti- 
nate maladies.  **  Let  every  one,  then,"  he  concludes,  "  be 
wholly  on  his  guard  against  contravening  in  the  least  the 
present  proclamation;  for,  instead  of  experiencing  the  clem- 
ency of  His  Excellency,  he  will  experience  the  rigour  of  his 
anger  ....  he  being  resolved  and  determined  that  this  shall 
be  the  last  and  peremptory  admonition." 

Not,  however,  of  this  opinion  was  the  most  Illustrious  and 
most  Excellent  Signor,  II  Signor  Don  Pietro  Enriquez  dt 
Acevedo,  Count  of  Fuentes,  Captain  and  Governor  of  the 
State  of  Milan ;  not  of  this  opinion  was  he,  and  for  good  rea- 
sons. "  Being  fully  informed  of  the  misery  in  which  this  city 
and  state  lies  by  reason  of  the  great  number  of  bravoes  which 


6  MANZONI 

abound  in  it  ...  .  and  being  resolved  wholly  to  extirpate  a 
plant  so  pernicious,"  he  issues,  on  the  5th  of  December,  1600, 
a  new  admonition,  full  of  severe  penalties,  ''  with  a  firm  pur- 
pose, that,  with  all  rigour,  and  without  any  hope  of  remission, 
they  shall  be  fully  carried  out." 

We  must  believe,  however,  that  he  did  not  apply  himself 
to  this  matter  with  that  hearty  good  will  which  he  knew  how 
to  employ  in  contriving  cabals  and  exciting  enemies  against 
his  great  enemy,  Henry  IV.  History  informs  us  that  he  suc- 
ceeded in  arming  against  that  king  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  and 
caused  him  to  lose  a  city.  He  succeeded  also  in  engaging  the 
Duke  of  Biron  on  his  behalf,  and  caused  him  to  lose  his  head; 
but  as  to  this  pernicious  plant  of  bravoes,  certain  it  is  that  it 
continued  to  blossom  till  the  22nd  of  September,  1612.  On 
that  day  the  most  Illustrious  Signor  Don  Giovanni  de  Men- 
dosa.  Marquis  of  Hynojosa,  Gentleman,  etc.,  Governor,  etc., 
had  serious  thoughts  of  extirpating  it.  To  this  end  he  sent 
the  usual  proclamation,  corrected  and  enlarged,  to  Pandolfo 
and  Marco  TuUio  Molatesti,  associated  printers  to  His  Majes- 
ty, with  orders  to  print  it,  to  the  destruction  of  the  bravoes. 
Yet  they  lived  to  receive,  on  the  24th  of  December,  1618,  sim- 
ilar and  more  vigorous  blows  from  the  most  Illustrious  and 
most  Excellent  Signor,  the  Signor  Don  Gomez  Suarez  di 
Figueroa,  Duke  of  Feria,  etc.,  Governor,  etc.  Moreover,  they 
not  being  hereby  done  to  death,  the  most  Illustrious  and  most 
Excellent  Signor,  the  Signor  Gonzala  Fernandez  di  Cordova 
(under  whose  government  these  events  happened  to  Don  Ab- 
bondio),  had  found  himself  obliged  to  recorrect  and  publish 
the  usual  proclamation  against  the  bravoes,  on  the  5th  day  of 
October,  1627;  i.  e.  one  year  one  month  and  two  days  before 
this  memorable  event. 

Nor  was  this  the  last  publication.  We  do  not  feel  bound, 
however,  to  make  mention  of  those  which  ensued,  as  they  are 
beyond  the  period  of  our  story.  We  will  notice  only  one  of 
the  13th  of  February,  1632,  in  which  the  most  Illustrious  and 
most  Excellent  Signor  '*  the  Duke  of  Feria,"  a  second  time 
governor,  signifies  to  us  *'  that  the  greatest  outrages  are 
caused  by  these  denominated  bravoes." 

This  suffices  to  make  it  pretty  certain,  that  at  the  time 
of  which  we  treat,  there  was  as  yet  no  lack  of  bravoes. 
"-^:  That  the  two  described  above  were  on  the  look  out  for 
some  one,  was  but  too  evident;  but  what  more  alarmed  Don 
Abbondio  was  that  he  was  assured  by  certain  signs  that  he  was 
the  person  expected;  for,  the  moment  he  appeared,  they  ex- 
changed glances,  raising  their  heads  with  a  movement  which 


THE   BETROTHED  7 

plainly  expressed  that  both  at  once  had  exclaimed,  "  Here's 
our  rrian>^  He  who  bestrode  the  wall  got  up  and  brought 
his  other  leg  into  the  path:  his  companion  left  leaning  on  the 
wall,  and  both  began  to  walk  toward  him.  Don  Abbondio, 
keeping  the  breviary  open  before  him  as  if  reading,  directed 
his  glance  forward  to  watch  their  movements.  He  saw  them 
advancing  straight  towards  him:  multitudes  of  thoughts,  all 
at  once,  crowded  upon  him;  with  quick  anxiety  he  asked  him- 
self whether  any  pathway  to  the  right  or  left  lay  between 
him  and  the  bravoes;  and  quickly  came  the  answer — no.  He 
made  a  hasty  examination,  to  discover  whether  he  had  offend- 
ed some  great  man,  some  vindictive  neighbour;  but  even  in 
this  moment  of  alarm,  the  consoling  testimony  of  conscience 
somewhat  reassured  him.  Meanwhile  the  bravoes  drew  near, 
eyeing  him  fixedly.  He  put  the  forefinger  and  middle  fin- 
ger of  his  left  hand  up  to  his  collar,  as  if  to  settle  it,  and  run- 
ning the  two  fingers  round  his  neck  he  turned  his  head  back- 
wards at  the  same  time,  twisting  his  mouth  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, and  looked  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes  as  far  as  he 
could,  to  see  whether  any  one  was  coming;  but  he  saw  no 
one.  He  cast  a  glance  over  the  low  wall  into  the  fields — no 
one;  another,  more  subdued,  along  the  path  forward — no  one 
but  the  bravoes.  What  is  to  be  done?  turn  back?  It  is  too 
late.  Run?  It  was  the  same  as  to  say,  follow  me,  or  worse. 
Since  he  could  not  escape  the  danger,  he  went  to  meet  it. 
These  moments  of  uncertainty  were  already  so  painful,  he 
desired  only  to  shorten  them.  He  quickened  his  pace,  re- 
cited a  verse  in  a  louder  tone,  composed  his  face  to  a  tranquil 
and  careless  expression,  as  well  as  he  could,  used  every  effort 
to  have  a  smile  ready;  and  when  he  found  himself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  two  good  men  exclaiming  mentally,  "  here  we 
are!"  he  stood  still.  *' Signor  Curato!"  said  one,  staring 
in  his  face. 

"Who  commands  me?"  quickly  answered  Don  Abbon- 
dio, raising  his  eyes  from  the  book,  and  holding  it  open  in 
both  hands. 

"  You  intend,"  continued  the  other,  with  the  threatening 
angry  brow  of  one  who  has  caught  an  inferior  committing 
some  grievous  fault,  ''  you  intend,  to-morrow,  to  marry  Ren- 
zo  Tramaglino  and  Lucia  Mondella!" 

"  That  is  .  .  .  ."  replied  Don  Abbondio,  with  a  quivering 
voice — "  that  is  ...  .  You,  gentlemen,  are  men  of  the 
world,  and  know  well  how  these  things  go.  A  poor  curate 
has  nothing  to  do  with  them.  They  patch  up  their  little  trea- 
ties between  themselves,  and  then  ....  then  they  come  to 


8  MANZONI 

us,  as  one  goes  to  the  bank  to  make  a  demand;  and  we  .... 
we  are  servants  of  the  community." 

"  Mark  well,"  said  the  bravo,  in  a  lower  voice,  but  with 
a  solemn  tone  of  command,  *'  this  marriage  is  not  to  be  per- 
formed, not  to-morrow,  nor  ever." 

"  But,  gentlemen,"  replied  Don  Abbondio,  with  the  sooth- 
ing mild  tone  of  one  who  would  persuade  an  impatient  man, 
'*  be  so  kind  as  to  put  yourselves  in  my  place.  If  the  thing 
depended  on  me  .  .  .  ..you  see  plainly  that  it  is  no  advan- 
tage to  me." 

''  Come,  come,"  interrupted  the  bravo;  "  if  the  thing  were 
to  be  decided  by  prating,  you  might  soon  put  our  heads  in  a 
poke.  We  know  nothing  about  it,  and  we  don't  want  to 
know  more.     A  warned  man  ....  you  understand." 

''  But  gentlemen  like  you  are  too  just,  too  reason- 
able .  .  .  ." 

*'  But "  (this  time  the  other  companions  broke  in,  who  had 
not  hitherto  spoken) — "  but  the  marriage  is  not  to  be  per- 
formed, or  .  .  .  ."  here  a  great  oath — ''  or  he  who  performs 
it  will  never  repent,  because  he  shall  have  no  time  for  it  .  .  .  ." 
another  oath. 

''Silence,  silence,"  replied  the  first  orator:  ''the  Signor 
Curate  knows  the  way  of  the  world,  and  we  are  good  sort  of 
men,  who  don't  wish  to  do  him  any  harm,  if  he  will  act  like 
a  wise  man.  Signor  Curato,  the  Illustrious  Signor  Don  Ro- 
drigo,  our  master,  sends  his  kind  respects." 

To  the  mind  of  Don  Abbondio  this  name  was  like  the 
lightning  flash  in  a  storm  at  night,  which,  illuminating  for  a 
moment  and  confusing  all  objects,  increases  the  terror.  As 
by  instinct  he  made  a  low  bow,  and  said,  "  If  you  could  sug- 
gest .  .  .  ." 

"Oh!  suggest  is  for  you  who  know  Latin,"  again  inter- 
rupted the  bravo,  with  a  smile  between  awkwardness  and 
ferocity;  "  it  is  all  very  well  for  you.  But,  above  all,  let  not 
a  word  be  whispered  about  this  notice  that  we  have  given  you 
for  your  good,  or  ...  .  Ehem!  ....  it  will  be  the  same  as 
marrying  them. — Well,  what  will  your  Reverence  that  we  say 
for  you  to  the  Illustrious  Signor  Don  Rodrigo?" 

"  My  respects." 

"  Be  clear,  Signor  Curato." 

"  .  .  .  .  Disposed  .....  always  disposed  to  obedience." 
And  having  said  these  words,  he  did  not  himself  well  know 
whether  he  had  given  a  promise,  or  whether  he  had  only  sent 
an  ordinary  compliment.  The  bravoes  took  it,  and  showed 
that  they  took  it,  in  the  more  serious  meaning. 


THE   BETROTHED  g 

"  Very  well — good  evening,  Signor  Curato,"  said  one  of 
them,  leading  his  companion  away. 

Don  Abbondio,  who  a  few  moments  before  would  have 
given  one  of  his  eyes  to  have  got  rid  of  them,  now  wished  to 
prolong  the  conversation  and  modify  the  treaty; — in  vain: 
they  would  not  listen,  but  took  the  path  along  which  he  had 
come,  and  were  soon  out  of  sight,  singing  a  ballad,  which 
I  do  not  choose  to  transcribe.  Poor  Don  Abbondio  stood 
for  a  moment  with  his  mouth  open,  as  if  enchanted:  then  he 
too  departed,  taking  that  path  which  led  to  his  house,  and 
hardly  dragging  one  leg  after  the  other,  with  a  sensation  of 
walking  on  crab-claws,  and  in  a  frame  of  mind  which  the 
reader  will  better  understand  after  having  learnt  somewhat 
more  of  the  character  of  this  personage,  and  of  the  sort  of 
times  in  which  his  lot  was  cast. 

Don  Abbondio — the  reader  may  have  discovered  it  al- 
ready— was  not  born  with  the  heart  of  a  lion.  Besides  this, 
from  his  earliest  years,  he  had  had  occasion  to  learn,  that  the 
most  embarrassing  of  all  conditions  in  those  times,  was  that 
of  an  animal  without  claws,  and  without  teeth,  which,  never- 
theless, had  no  inclination  to  be  devoured. 

The  arm  of  the  law  by  no  means  protected  the  quiet  in- 
offensive man,  who  had  no  other  means  of  inspiring  fear. 
Not,  indeed,  that  there  was  any  want  of  laws  and  penalties 
against  private  violence.  Laws  came  down  like  hail;  crimes 
were  recounted  and  particularized  with  minute  prolixity;  pen- 
alties were  absurdly  exorbitant;  and  if  that  were  not  enough, 
capable  of  augmentation  in  almost  every  case,  at  the  will  of 
the  legislator  himself  and  of  a  hundred  executives;  the  forms 
of  procedure  studied  only  how  to  liberate  the  judge  from 
every  expediment  in  the  way  of  passing  a  sentence  of  con- 
demnation; the  sketches  we  have  given  of  the  proclamations 
against  the  bravoes  are  a  feeble  but  true  index  of  this.  Not- 
withstanding, or  rather  in  great  measure  for  this  reason,  these 
proclamations,  republished  and  re-enforced  by  one  govern- 
ment after  another,  served  only  to  attest  most  magniloquently 
the  importance  of  their  authors;  or  if  they  produced  any  im- 
m.ediate  effect,  it  was  for  the  most  part  to  add  new  vexations 
to  those  already  suffered  by  the  peaceable  and  helpless  at  the 
hands  of  the  turbulent,  and  to  increase  the  violence  and  cun- 
ning of  the  latter.  Impunity  was  organized  and  implanted 
so  deeply  that  its  roots  were  untouched,  or  at  least  unmoved, 
by  these  proclamations.  Such  were  the  asylums,  such  were 
the  privileges  of  certain  classes,  privileges  partly  recognized 
by  law,  partly  borne  with  envious  silence,  or  decried  with  vain 


10  MANZONI 

protests,  but  kept  up  in  fact,  and  guarded  by  these  classes, 
and  by  almost  every  individual  in  them,  with  interested  activ- 
ity and  punctilious  jealousy.  Now,  impunity  of  this  kind, 
threatened  and  insulted,  but  not  destroyed  by  the  proclama- 
tions, was  naturally  obliged,  on  every  new  threat  and  insult, 
to  put  in  force  new  powers  and  new  schemes  to  preserve  its 
own  existence.  So  it  fell  out  in  fact;  and  on  the  appearance 
of  a  proclamation  for  the  restraint  of  the  violent,  these  sought 
in  their  real  power  new  means  more  apt  in  effecting  that 
which  the  proclamations  forbade.  The  proclamations,  in- 
deed, could  accomplish  at  every  step  the  molestation  of  good 
sort  of  men,  who  had  neither  power  themselves  nor  protection 
from  others;  because,  in  order  to  have  every  person  under 
their  hands,  to  prevent  or  punish  every  crime,  they  subjected 
every  movement  of  private  life  to  the  arbitrary  will  of  a  thou- 
sand magistrates  and  executives.  But  whoever,  before  com- 
mitting a  crime,  had  taken  measures  to  secure  his  escape  in 
time  to  a  convent  or  a  palace,  where  the  armed  police  had 
never  dared  to  enter;  whoever  (without  any  other  measures) 
bore  a  livery  which  called  to  his  defence  the  vanity  and  in- 
terests of  a  powerful  family  or  order,  such  an  one  was  free  to 
do  as  he  pleased,  and  could  set  at  nought  the  clamour  of  the 
proclamations.  Of  those  very  persons  to  whom  the  enforc- 
ing of  them  was  committed,  some  belonged  by  birth  to  the 
privileged  class,  some  were  dependent  on  it,  as  clients;  both 
one  and  another  by  education,  interest,  habit,  and  imitation, 
had  embraced  its  maxims,  and  would  have  taken  good  care 
not  to  ofifend  it  for  the  sake  of  a  piece  of  paper  pasted  on  the 
corners  of  the  streets.  The  men  entrusted  with  the  imme- 
diate execution  of  the  decrees,  had  they  been  enterprising  as 
heroes,  obedient  as  monks,  and  devoted  as  martyrs,  could  not 
have  had  the  upper  hand,  inferior  as  they  were  in  number  to 
those  with  whom  they  would  have  been  engaged  in  battle, 
with  the  probability  of  being  frequently  abandoned,  or  even 
sacrificed,  by  those  who  abstractedly,  or  (so  to  say)  in  theory, 
set  them  to  work.  But  besides  this,  these  men  were  gener- 
ally chosen  from  the  lowest  and  most  rascally  classes  of  those 
times:  their  office  was  held  base  even  by  those  who  stood 
most  in  fear  of  it,  and  their  title  a  reproach.  It  was  therefore 
but  natural  that  they,  instead  of  risking,  or  rather  throwing 
away  their  lives  in  an  impracticable  undertaking,  should  take 
pay  for  inaction,  or  even  connivance  at  the  powerful,  and  re- 
serve the  exercise  of  their  execrated  authority  and  diminished 
power  for  those  occasions,  where  they  could  oppress  without 
danger,  i.  e.  by  annoying  pacific  and  defenceless  persons. 


THE  BETROTHED  II 

The  man  who  is  ready  to  give  and  expecting  to  receive^ 
offence  every  moment,  naturally  seeks  allies  and  companions. ' 
Hence  the  tendency  of  individuals  to  unite  into  classes  was  in 
these  times  carried  to  the  greatest  excess;  new  societies  were 
formed,  and  each  man  strove  to  Increase  the  power  of  his  own 
party  to  the  greatest  degree.  The  clergy  were  on  the  watch 
to  defend  and  extend  their  immunities;  the  nobility  their  priv- 
ileges, the  military  their  exemptions.  Tradespeople  and 
artisans  were  enrolled  In  subordinate  confraternities,  lawyers 
constituted  a  league,  and  even  doctors  a  corporation. 
Each  of  these  little  oligarchies  had  its  own  peculiar  power; 
in  each  the  Individual  found  it  an  advantage  to  avail  himself, 
in  proportion  to  their  authority  and  vigour,  of  the  united  force 
of  the  many.  Honest  men  availed  themselves  of  this  ad- 
vantage for  defence;  the  evil-disposed  and  sharp-witted  made 
use  of  It  to  accomplish  deeds  of  violence,  for  which  their  per- 
sonal means  were  insufficient,  and  to  ensure  themselves  im- 
punity. The  power,  however,  of  these  various  combinations 
was  very  unequal;  and  especially  in  the  country,  a  rich  and 
violent  nobility,  having  a  band  of  bravoes,  and  surrounded  by 
a  peasantry  accustomed  by  immemorial  tradition,  and  com- 
pelled by  interest  or  force,  to  look  upon  themselves  as  sol- 
diers of  their  lords,  exercised  a  power  against  which  no  other 
league  could  have  maintained  effectual  resistance. 

Our  Abbondio,  not  noble,  not  rich,  not  courageous,  was 
therefore  accustomed  from  his  very  infancy  to  look  upon 
himself  as  a  vessel  of  fragile  earthenware,  obliged  to  journey 
in  company  with  many  vessels  of  iron.  Hence  he  had  very 
easily  acquiesced  in  his  parents'  wish  to  make  him  a  priest. 
To  say  the  truth,  he  had  not  reflected  much  on  the  obligations 
and  noble  ends  of  the  ministry  to  which  he  was  dedicating 
himself:  to  ensure  something  to  live  upon  with  comfort,  and 
to  place  himself  in  a  class  revered  and  powerful,  seemed  to  him 
two  sufficient  reasons  for  his  choice.  But  no  class  whatever 
provides  for  an  individual,  or  secures  him,  beyond  a  certain 
point:  and  none  dispenses  him  from  forming  his  own  par- 
ticular system. 

Don  Abbondio,  continually  absorbed  in  thoughts  about 
his  own  security,  cared  not  at  all  for  those  advantages  which 
risked  a  little  to  secure  a  great  deal.  His  system  was  to  es- 
cape all  opposition,  and  to  yield  where  he  could  not  escape. 
In  all  the  frequent  contests  carried  on  around  him  between 
the  clergy  and  laity,  In  the  perpetual  collision  between  officials 
and  the  nobility,  between  the  nobility  and  magistrates,  be- 
tween bravoes  and  soldiers,  down  to  the  pitched  battle  between 


12         ,  MANZONI 

two  rustics,  arising  from  a  word,  and  decided  with  fists  or 
poniards,  an  unarmed  neutrality  was  his  chosen  position.  If 
he  were  absolutely  obliged  to  take  a  part,  he  favoured  the 
stronger,  always,  however,  with  a  reserve,  and  an  endeavour 
to  show  the  other  that  he  was  not  willingly  his  enemy.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  would  say,  *'  Why  did  you  not  manage  to  be 
the  stronger?  I  would  have  taken  your  side  then."  Keeping 
a  respectful  distance  from  the  powerful;  silently  bearing  their 
scorn,  when  capriciously  shown  in  passing  instances;  answer- 
ing with  submission  when  it  assumed  a  more  serious  and  de- 
cided form;  obliging,  by  his  profound  bows  and  respectful 
salutations,  the  most  surly  and  haughty  to  return  him  a 
smile,  when  he  met  them  by  the  way;  the  poor  man  had  per- 
formed the  voyage  of  sixty  years  without  experiencing  any 
very  violent  tempests. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  not  too  his  own  little  portion  of 
gall  in  his  disposition:  and  this  continual  exercise  of  endur- 
ance, this  ceaseless  giving  reasons  to  others,  these  many  bit- 
ter mouthfuls  gulped  down  in  silence,  had  so  far  exasperated 
it,  that  had  he  not  had  an  opportunity  sometimes  of  giving  it 
a  little  of  its  own  way,  his  health  would  certainly  have  suf- 
fered. But  since  there  were  in  the  world,  close  around  him, 
some  few  persons  whom  he  knew  well  to  be  incapable  of  hurt- 
ing, upon  them  he  was  able  now  and  then  to  let  out  the  bad 
humour  so  long  pent  up,  and  take  upon  himself  (even  he) 
the  right  to  be  a  little  fantastic,  and  to  scold  unreasonably. 
Besides,  he  was  a  rigid  censor  of  those  who  did  not  guide 
themselves  by  his  rules;  that  is,  when  the  censure  could  be 
passed  without  any,  the  most  distant,  danger.  Was  any  one 
beaten?  he  was  at  least  imprudent; — any  one  murdered?  he 
had  always  been  a  turbulent  meddler.  If  any  one,  having 
tried  to  maintain  his  right  against  some  powerful  noble,  came 
ofif  with  a  broken  head,  Don  Abbondio  always  knew  how  to 
discover  some  fault;  a  thing  not  difficult,  since  right  and 
wrong  never  are  divided  with  so  clean  a  cut  that  one  party 
has  the  whole  of  either.  Above  all,  he  declaimed  against  any 
of  his  brethren,  who,  at  their  own  risk,  took  the  part  of  the 
weak  and  oppressed  against  the  powerful  oppressor.  This 
he  called  paying  for  quarrels,  and  giving  one's  legs  to  the 
dogs:  he  even  pronounced  with  severity  upon  it,  as  a  mixing 
in  profane  things,  to  the  loss  of  dignity  to  the  sacred  ministry. 
Against  such  men  he  discoursed  (always,  however,  with  his 
eyes  about  him,  or  in  a  retired  corner)  with  greater  vehe- 
mence in  proportion  as  he  knew  them  to  be  strangers  to  anx- 
iety about  their  personal  safety.     He  had,  finally,  a  favourite 


THE   BETROTHED  13 

sentence,  with  which  he  ahvays  wound  up  discourses  of  these 
matters,  that  a  respectable  man  who  looked  to  himself  and 
minded  his  own  business  could  always  keep  clear  of  mischiev- 
ous quarrels. 

My  five-and-twenty  readers  may  imagine  what  impression 
such  an  encounter  as  has  been  related  above  would  make 
on  the  mind  of  this  pitiable  being.  The  fearful  aspect  of 
those  faces;  the  great  words;  the  threats  of  a  Signor  known 
for  never  threatening  in  vain;  a  system  of  living  in  quiet,  the 
patient  study^  of  so  many._years^  upset  in  a  moment;  and,  in 
pros^^~,  a  path  narrow  and  rugged,  from  which  no  exit  could 
be  seen — all  these  thoughts  buzzed  about  tumultuously  in 
the  downcast  head  of  Don  Abbondio.  "  If  Renzo  could  be 
dismissed  in  peace  with  a  mere  no,  it  is  all  plain;  but  he  would 
want  reasons;  and  what  am  I  to  say  to  him?  and — and — and 
he  is  a  lamb,  quiet  as  a  lamb,  if  no  one  touches  him,  but  if 
he  were  contradicted  ....  whew!  and  then — out  of  his 
senses  about  this  Lucia,  in  love  over  head  and  .... 
These  young  men,  who  fall  in  love  for  want  of  something  to 
do,  li'iil  be  miarried,  and  think  nothing  about  other  people, 
they  do  not  care  anything  for  the  trouble  they  bring  upon 
a  poor  curate.  Unfortunate  me!  What  possible  business 
had  these  two  frightful  figures  to  put  themselves  in  my  path, 
and  interfere  with  mef  Is  it  I  who  want  to  be  married? 
Why  did  they  not  rather  go  and  talk  with  ....  Let  me  see: 
what  a  great  miisfortune  it  is  that  the  right  plan  never  comes 
into  my  head  till  it  is  too  late!  If  I  had  but  thought  of  sug- 
gesting to  them  to  carry  their  message  to  .  .  .  ."  But  at 
this  Doint  it  occurred  to  him  that  to  repent  of  not  having  been 
aider  and  abettor  in  iniquity,  was  itself  iniquitous;  and  he 
turned  his  angry  thoughts  upon  the  man  who  had  come,  in 
this  manner,  to  rob  him  of  his  peace.  He  knew  Don  Rodrigo 
only  by  sight  and  by  report;  nor  had  he  had  to  do  with  him 
further  than  to  make  a  lowly  reverence  when  he  had  chanced 
to  meet  him.  It  had  fallen  to  him  several  times  to  defend  this 
Signor  against  those  who,  with  subdued  voice  and  looks  of 
fear,  wished  ill  to  some  of  his  enterprises.  He  had  said  a 
hundred  times  that  he  was  a  respectable  cavalier;  but  at  this 
moment  he  bestowed  upon  him  all  those  epithets  v/hich  he 
had  never  heard  applied  by  others  without  an  exclamation 
of  disapprobation.  Amid  the  tumult  of  these  thoughts  he 
reached  his  own  door — hastily  applied  the  key  which  he  held 
in  his  hand,  opened,  entered,  carefully  closed  it  behind  him, 
and  anxious  to  find  himself  in  trustworthy  company,  called 
quickly,  "  Perpetua,  Perpetua!  "  as  he  went  toward  the  din- 


14 


MANZONI 


ing-room,  where  he  was  sure  to  find  Perpetua  laying  the 
cloth  for  supper. 

Perpetua,  as  every  one  already  know^s,  was  Don  Abbon- 
dio's  servant,  a  servant  affectionate  and  faithful,  who  knew 
how  to  obey  and  command  in  turn  as  occasioned  required — to 
bear,  in  season,  the  grumblings  and  fancies  of  her  master,  and 
to  make  him  bear  the  like  when  her  turn  came;  which  day  by 
day  recurred  more  frequently,  since  she  had  passed  the  sino- 
dal  age  of  forty,  remaining  single  because,  as  she  said  herself, 
she  had  refused  all  offers,  or  because  she  had  never  found  any 
one  goose  enough  to  have  her,  as  her  friends  said. 
^,__J^  am  coming,"  replied  Perpetua,  putting  down  in  its 
usuaT^lace  a  little  flask  of  Don  Abbondio's  favourite  wine, 
and  moving  leisurely.  But  before  she  reached  the  door  of 
the  dining-room,  he  entered,  with  a  step  so  unsteady,  with 
an  expression  so  overcast,  with  features  so  disturbed,  that 
there  had  been  no  need  of  Perpetua's  experienced  eye  to 
discover  at  a  glance  that  something  very  extraordinary  had 
happened. 

"Mercy!  what  has  happened  to  you,  master?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  replied  Don  Abbondio,  sinking 
down  breathless  on  his  arm-chair. 

"  How  nothing!  Would  you  make  me  believe  this,  so  dis- 
ordered as  you  are?     Some  great  misfortune  has  happened." 

*' Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake!  When  I  say  nothing,  either  it 
is  nothing,  or  it  is  something  I  cannot  tell." 

''  Not  tell,  even  to  me?  Who  will  take  care  of  your  safety, 
sir?  who  will  advise  you?" 

*'  Oh,  dear!  hold  your  tongue,  and  say  no  more:  give  me 
a  glass  of  my  wine." 

"And  you  will  persist,  sir,  that  it  is  nothing!"  said  Per- 
petua, filling  the  glass,  and  then  holding  it  in  her  hand,  as  if 
she  would  give  it  in  payment  for  the  confidence  he  kept  her 
waiting  for  so  long. 

"  Give  it  here,  give  it  here,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  taking 
the  glass  from  her  with  no  very  steady  hand,  and  emptying  it 
hastily,  as  if  it  were  a  draught  of  medicine. 

"  Do  you  wish  me,  then,  sir,  to  be  obliged  to  ask  here 
and  there  what  has  happened  to  my  master?  "  said  Perpetua, 
right  opposite  him,  with  her  arms  akimbo,  looking  steadily 
at  him,  as  if  she  would  gather  the  truth  from  his  eyes. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake!  let  us  have  no  brawling — let  us  have 
no  noise:  it  is  ....  it  is  my  life!" 

"Your  Hfe!" 

"My  life." 


THE    BETROTHED  15 

"  Yoll  know,  sir,  that  whenever  you  have  told  me  any 
thing  sincerely  in  confidence,  I  have  never  .  .  .  ." 

"  Well  done!  for  instance,  when  .  .  .  ," 

Perpetua  saw  she  had  touched  a  wrong  chord;  where- 
fore, suddenly  changing  her  tone,  "  Signor,  master,"  she  said, 
with  a  softened  and  affectioning  voice,  "  I  have  always  been 
an  aftectionate  servant  to  you,  sir;  and  if  I  wish  to  know  this, 
it  is  because  of  my  care  for  you,  because  I  wish  to  be  able 
to  help  you,  to  give  you  good  advice,  and  to  comfort  you." 

The  fact  was  that  Don  Abbondio  was  perhaps  just  as  anx- 
ious to  get  rid  of  his  burdensome  secret  as  Perpetua  was  to 
know  it.  In  consequence,  after  having. rebutted,  always  more 
feebly,  her  reiterated  and  more  vigorous  assaults,  after  having 
made  her  vow  more  than  once  not  to  breathe  the  subject, 
with  many  sighs  and  many  doleful  exclamations  he  related 
at  last  the  miserable  event.  When  he  came  to  the  terrible 
name,  it  was  necessary  for  Perpetua  to  make  new  and  more 
solemn  vows  of  silence;  and  Don  Abbondio,  having  pro- 
nounced this  name,  sank  back  on  the  chair,  lifting  up  his 
hands  in  act  at  once  of  command  and  entreaty — exclaiming, 
*'  For  Heaven's  sake !  " 

"Mercy!"  exclaimed  Perpetua,  "Oh,  what  a  wretch! 
Oh,  what  a  tyrant!     Oh,  what  a  godless  man!  " 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue?  or  do  you  wish  to  ruin  me 
altogether?  " 

"  Why,  we're  all  alone :  no  one  can  hear  us.  But  what 
will  you  do,  sir?     Oh,  my  poor  master!  " 

"  You  see  now,  you  see,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  in  an  angry 
tone,  "what  good  advice  this  woman  can  give  me!  She 
comes  and  asks  me  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do,  as  if  she 
were  in  a  quandary,  and  it  were  my  place  to  help  her  out." 

"  But  I  could  even  give  my  poor  opinion;  but  then  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  then,  let  us  hear." 

"  My  advice  would  be,  since,  as  everybody  says,  our 
Archbishop  is  a  saint,  a  bold-hearted  m.an,  who  is  not  afraid 
of  an  ugly  face,  and  who  glories  in  upholding  a  poor  curate 
against  these  tyrants,  when  he  has  an  opportunity — I  should 
say,  and  I  do  say,  that  you  should  write  a  nice  letter  to  inform 
him  that  .  .  .  ." 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue?  will  you  be  silent?  Is  this 
fit  advice  to  give  a  poor  man?  When  a  bullet  was  lodged  in 
mv  back  (Heaven  defend  me!),  would  the  Archbishop  dis- 
lodge it?" 

"Why!  bullets  don't  fly  in  showers  like  comfits.  Woe  to 
us,  if  these  dogs  could  bite  whenever  they  bark !     And  I  have 


i6  MANZONI 

always  taken  notice  that  whoever  knows  how  to  show  his 
teeth,  and  make  use  of  them,  is  treated  with  respect;  and  just 
because  master  will  never  give  his  reasons,  we  are  come  to 
that  pass  that  every  one  comes  to  us,  if  I  may  say  it,  to  .  .  .  ." 

*'  Will  you  hold  your  tongue?  " 

**  I  will  directly;  but  it  is,  however,  certain,  that  when 
all  the  world  sees  a  man  always,  in  every  encounter,  ready  to 
yield  the  .  .  .  ." 

''  Will  you  hold  your  tongue?  Is  this  a  time  for  such  non- 
sensical words?  " 

*' Very  weh:  you  can  think  about  it  to-night;  but  now, 
don't  be  doir>g  any  mischief  to  yourself;  don't  be  making 
yourself  ill — take  a  mouthful  to  eat." 

"  Think  about  it,  shall  I? "  grumbled  Don  Abbondio,  *'  to 
be  sure  I  shall  think  about  it.  I've  got  it  to  think  about;" 
and  he  got  up,  going  on;  ,*' I  will  take  nothing,  nothing:  I 
have  something  else  to  do.  I  know,  too,  what  I  ought  to 
think  about  it.  But,  that  this  should  have  come  on  niy 
head!" 

"  Swallow  at  least  this  other  little  drop,"  said  Perpetua, 
pouring  it  out;  ''  you  know,  sir,  this  always  strengthens  your 
stomach." 

"  Ah,  we  want  another  strengthener — another — an- 
other  " 

So  saying,  he  took  the  candle,  and  constantly  grum- 
bling, "a  nice  little  business  to  a  man  like  me!  and  to-mor- 
row, what  is  to  be  done?"  with  other  like  lamentations,  wxnt 
to  his  chamber,  to  lie  down.  When  he  had  reached  the  door, 
he  paused  a  moment,  turned  round  and  laid  his  finger  on 
his  lips,  pronouncing  slowly  and  solemnly,  "  For  Heaven's 
sake!"  and  disappeared. 


ii 


CHAPTER    II 

IT  is  related  that  the  Prince  Conde  slept  soundly  the  night 
before  the  battle  of  Rocroi.  But,  in  the  first  place,  he 
was  very  tired,  and,  secondly,  he  had  given  all  needful 
previous  orders,  and  arranged  what  was  to  be  done  on  the 
morrow.  Don  Abbondio,  on  the  other  hand,  as  yet  knew 
nothing,  except  that  the  morrow  would  be  a  day  of  battle: 
hence  a  great  part  of  the  night  was  spent  by  him  in  anxious 
and  harassing  deliberations.  To  take  no  notice  of  the  law- 
less intimation,  and  proceed  with  the  marriage,  was  a  plan  on 
which  he  had  not  even  expended  a  thought.  To  confide  the 
occurrence  to  Renzo,  and  seek  with  him  some  means  .... 
he  dreaded  the  thought!  "he  must  not  let  a  word  escape 
....  otherwise  ....  ehm! "  thus  one  of  the  bravoes  had 
spoken,  and  at  the  re-echoing  of  this  ehm!  Don  Abbondio, 
far  from  thinking  of  transgressing  such  a  law,  began  to 
repent  of  having  revealed  it  to  Perpetua.  Must  he  fly! 
Whither?  And  then,  how  many  annoyances,  how  many  rea- 
sons to  give!  As  he  rejected  plan  after  pjan,  the  unfortunate  i 
man  tos3ed  from  side  to  side  in  bed.,;^  The  course  which  \ 
seemed  best  to  him  was  to  gain  time,  by  rtnposing  on  Renzo. 
He  opportunely  remembered  that  it  wanted  only  a  few  days 
of  the  time  when  weddings  were  prohibited. — "  And  if  I  can 
only  put  him  ofif  for  these  few  days,  I  have  then  two  months 
before  me,  and  in  two  months  great  things  may  be  done." — 
Pie  ruminated  over  various  pretexts  to  bring  into  play:  and 
though  they  appeared  to  him  rather  slight,  yet  he  reassured 
himself  with  the  thought  that  his  authority  added  to  them 
would  make  them  appear  of  sufTlicient  weight,  and  that  his 
practised  experience  would  give  him  great  advantage  over  an 
ignorant  youth.  ''  Let  us  see,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  he  thinks 
of  his  love,  but  I  of  my  life;  I  am  more  interested  than  he: 
beside  that  I  am  cleverer.  My  dear  child,  if  you  feel  your 
back  smarting,  I  know  not  what  to  say;  but  I  will  not  put  my 
foot  in  it." — His  mind  being  thus  a  little  settled  to  delibera- 
tion, he  was  able  at  last  to  close  his  eyes;  but  what  sleep! 

2  17 


1 8  MANZONI 

What   dreams!     Bravoes,    Don    Rodrigo,    Renzo,   pathways, 
rocks,  flight,  chase,  cries,  muskets! 

The  moment  of  first  awaking  after  a  misfortune,  while 
still  in  perplexity,  is  a  bitter  one.  The  mind,  scarcely  restored 
to  consciousness,  returns  to  the  habitual  idea  of  former  tran- 
quility; but  the  thought  of  the  new  state  of  things  soon  pre- 
sents itself  with  rude  abruptness;  and  our  misfortune  is  most 
trying  in  this  moment  of  contrast.  Dolefully  Don  Abbondio 
tasted  the  bitterness  of  this  moment,  and  then  began  hastily 
to  recapitulate  the  designs  of  the  night,  confirmed  himself 
in  them,  arranged  them  anew,  arose,  and  waited  for  Renzo  at 
once  with  fear  and  impatience. 

Lorenzo,  or,  as  every  one  called  him,  Renzo,  did  not 
keep  him  long  waiting.  Scarcely  had  the  hour  arrived  at 
which  he  thought  he  could  with  propriety  present  himself  to 
the  curate,  when  he  set  off  with  the  light  step  of  a  man  of 
twenty,  who  was  on  that  day  to  espouse  her  whom  he  loved. 
He  had  in  early  youth  been  deprived  of  his  parents,  and  car- 
ried on  the  trade  of  a  silk-weaver,  hereditary,  so  to  say,  in 
his  family;  a  trade  lucrative  enough  in  former  years,  but  even 
then  beginning  to  decline,  yet  not  to  such  a  degree  that  a 
clever  workman  was  not  able  to  make  an  honest  livelihood  by 
it.  Work  became  more  scarce  from  day  to  day,  but  the  con- 
tinual emigration  of  the  workmen,  attracted  to  the  neighbour- 
ing states  by  promises,  privileges,  and  large  wages,  left  sufifii- 
cient  occupation  for  those  who  remained  in  the  country. 
Renzo  possessed,  besides,  a  plot  of  land,  which  he  cultivated, 
working  in  it  himself  when  he  was  disengaged  from  his 
silk-making,  so  that  in  his  station  he  might  be  called  a 
rich  man.  Although  this  year  w^as  one  of  greater  scarcity 
than  those  which  had  preceded  it,  and  real  want  began  to  be 
felt  already,  yet  he,  having  become  a  saver  of  money  ever 
since  he  had  cast  his  eyes  upon  Lucia,  found  himself  sufficient- 
ly furnished  with  provisions,  and  had  no  need  to  beg  his 
bread.  He  appeared  before  Don  Abbondio  in  gay  bridal  cos- 
tume, with  feathers  of  various  colours  in  his  cap,  with  an  or- 
namental-hilted  dagger  in  his  pocket,  and  with  an  air  of 
festivity,  and  at  the  same  time  of  defiance,  common  at  that 
time  even  to  men  the  most  quiet.  The  hesitating  and  mysteri- 
ous reception  of  Don  Abbondio  formed  a  strange  contrast 
with  the  joyous  and  resolute  bearing  of  the  young  man. 

He  must  have  got  some  notion  in  his  head,  thought  Ren- 
zo to  himself,  and  then  said:  "  I  have  come,  Signor  Curate,  to 
know  at  what  hour  it  will  suit  you  for  us  to  be  at  church." 

"  What  day  are  you  speaking  of? " 


THE    BETROTHED  I9 

"  How!  of  what  day?  Don't  you  remember,  sir,  that  this 
is  the  day  fixed  upon?  " 

**  To-day?"  repUed  Don  Abbondio,  as  if  he  now  heard 
it  spoken  of  for  the  first  time.  '*  To-day,  to-day  ....  don't 
be  impatient,  but  to-day  I  can  not." 

'*  To-day  you  cannot!     What  has  happened,  sir?" 

"  First  of  all,  I  do  not  feel  well,  you  see." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  but  what  you  have  to  do,  sir,  is  so 
soon  done,  and  so  little  fatiguing  .  .  .  ." 

'*  And  then,  and  then,  and  then  .  .  .  ." 

"And  then  what,  Signor  Curate?" 

"  And  then,  there  are  difficulties." 

''Difficulties!     What  difficulties  can  there  be?" 

"  You  need  to  stand  in  our  shoes,  to  understand  what  per- 
plexities we  have  in  these  matters,  what  reasons  to  give.  I 
am  too  soft-hearted,  I  think  of  nothing  but  how  to  remove 
obstacles,  and  make  all  easy,  and  arrange  things  to  please 
others;  I  neglect  my  duty,  and  then  I  am  subject  to  reproofs, 
and  worse." 

''  But  in  Heaven's  name,  don't  keep  me  so  on  the  stretch 
— tell  me  at  once  what  is  the  matter." 

"  Do  you  know  how  many,  many  formalities  are  neces- 
sary to  perform  a  marriage  regularly?" 

"  I  ought  to  know  a  little  about  it,"  said  Renzo,  beginning 
to  be  warm,  "  for  you,  sir,  have  puzzled  my  head  enough 
about  it,  the  last  few  days  back.  But  now  is  not  every- 
thing made  clear?  Is  not  everything  done  that  had  to  be 
done?" 

''All,  all,  on  your  part:  therefore,  have  patience;  an  ass 
I  am  to  neglect  my  duty  that  I  may  not  give  pain  to  people. 
We  poor  curates  are  between  the  anvil  and  the  hammer;  you 
are  impatient;  I  am  sorry  for  you,  poor  young  man;  and  the 
great  people  ....  enough,  one  must  not  say  everything. 
And  we  have  to  go  between." 

"  But  explain  to  me  at  once,  sir,  what  this  new  formality 
is,  which  has  to  be  gone  through,  as  you  say;  and  it  shall  be 
done  soon." 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  number  of  absolute  impedi- 
ments is?  " 

"  What  would  you  have  me  know  about  impediments, 
sir?  " 

"  Error,  conditio,  votum,  cognatio,  crimen,  cultus,  dispari- 
tas,  vis,  ordo  ....  Si  sit  affinis  .  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  making  game  of  me,  sir?  What  do  you  ex- 
pect me  to  know  about  your  latinorum?  " 


20  MANZONI 

"  Then,  if  you  don't  understand  things,  have  patience, 
and  leave  them  to  those  who  do." 

''Or  su!  .  .  .  ." 

"  Quiet,  my  dear  Renzo,  don't  get  in  a  passion,  for  I 
am  ready  to  do  ...  .  all  that  depends  on  me.  I,  I  wish  to 
see  you  satisfied;  I  wish  you  well.  Alas!  ....  when  I 
think  how  well  off  you  were;  what  were  you  wanting?  The 
whim  of  getting  married  came  upon  you  .  .  .  ." 

''  What  talk  is  this,  Signor  mio?  "  interrupted  Renzo,  with 
a  voice  between  astonishment  and  anger. 

"  Have  patience,  I  tell  you.     I  wish  to  see  you  satisfied." 

"  In  short  .  .  .  ." 

*'  In  short,  my  son,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine.  I  did  not  make 
the  law;  and  before  concluding  a  marriage,  it  is  our  special 
duty  to  certify  ourselves  that  there  is  no  impediment." 

''  But  come,  tell  me  once  for  all  what  impediment  has 
come  in  the  way?  " 

"  Have  patience,  they  are  not  things  to  be  deciphered 
thus  at  a  standing.  It  will  be  nothing  to  us,  I  hope;  but,  be 
the  consequence  great  or  little,  we  must  make  these  re- 
searches. The  text  is  clear  and  evident;  antequam  matri- 
monium  denunciet  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  have  told  you,  sir,  I  will  have  no  Latin." 

"  But  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  explain  to  you  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  have  you  not  made  all  these  researches?" 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  not  made  them  all,  as  I  must." 

"  Why  did  you  not  do  it  in  time,  sir?  Why  did  you  tell 
me  that  all  was  finished?     Why  wait  .  .  .  ." 

"  Look  now!  you  are  finding  fault  with  my  over-kindness. 
I  have  facilitated  everything  to  serve  you  without  loss  of 
time:  but  ....  but  now  I  have  received  ....  enough,  I 
know." 

"  And  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do,  sir?  " 

"  To  have  patience  for  a  few  days.  My  dear  son,  a  few 
days  are  not  eternity:  have  patience." 

"  For  how  long?  " 

— We  are  in  good  train  now,  thought  Don  Abbondio  to 
himself:  and  added  with  a  more  polite  manner  than  ever: 
"  Come  now,  in  fifteen  days  I  will  endeavour  to  do  .  .  .  ." 

*'  Fifteen  days!  This  indeed  is  something  new!  You 
have  had  everything  your  own  way,  sir;  you  fixed  the  day; 
the  day  arrives;  and  now  you  go  tell  me  that  I  must  wait 
fifteen  days.  Fifteen  .  .  .  ."  he  began  again,  with  a  louder 
and  more  angry  voice,  extending  his  arm  and  striking  the  air 
with  his  fist;  and  nobody  knows  what  shocking  words   he 


THE   BETROTHED  21 

would  have  added  to  this  number  fifteen,  if  Don  Abbondio 
had  not  interrupted  him,  taking  his  other  hand  with  a  timid 
and  anxious  friendhness:  *'  Come,  come,  don't  be  angry,  for 
Heaven's  sake.  I  will  see,  I  will  try  whether  in  one 
week  .  .  .  ." 

''  And  Lucia,  what  must  I  say  to  her?  " 

''  That  it  has  been  an  oversight  of  mine." 

''And  what  will  the  world  say?" 

"  Tell  them  too,  that  I  have  made  a  blunder  through  over- 
haste,  through  too  much  good  nature :  lay  all  the  fault  on  me. 
Can  I  say  more?     Come  now,  for  one  week." 

"And  then  will  there  be  no  more  impediments?" 

"  When  I  tell  you  .  .  .  ." 

"  Very  well :  I  will  be  quiet  for  a  week ;  but  I  know  well 
enough  that  when  it  is  passed,  I  shall  get  nothing  but  talk. 
But  before  that  I  shall  see  you  again."  Having  so  said  he  re- 
tired, making  a  bow  much  less  lowly  than  usual,  to  Don  Ab- 
bondio, and  bestowing  on  him  a  glance  more  expressive  than 
reverent. 

Having  reached  the  road,  and  walking  with  a  heavy  heart 
toward  the  home  of  his  betrothed,  in  the  midst  of  his  wrath, 
he  turned  his  thoughts  on  the  late  conversation,  and  more 
and  more  strange  it  seemed  to  him.  The  cold  and  con- 
strained greeting  of  Don  Abbondio;  his  guarded  and  yet  im- 
patient words,  his  grey  eyes,  which,  as  he  spoke,  glanced  in- 
quisitively here  and  there,  as  if  afraid  of  coming  in  contact 
with  the  words  which  issued  from  his  mouth,  the  making  a 
new  thing,  as  it  were,  of  the  nuptials  so  expressly  determined, 
and  above  all,  the  constant  hinting  at  some  great  occurrence, 
without  ever  saying  anything  decided — all  these  things  put 
together  made  Renzo  think  that  there  was  some  overhanging 
mystery,  different  from  that  which  Don  Abbondio  would  have 
had  him  suppose.  The  youth  was  just  on  the  point  of  turn- 
ing back,  to  oblige  him  to  speak  more  plainly;  but  raising  his 
eyes,  he  saw  Perpetua  a  little  way  before  him,  entering  a 
garden  a  few  paces  distant  from  the  house.  He  gave  her  a 
call  to  open  the  garden  door  for  him,  quickened  his  pace, 
came  up  with  her,  detained  her  in  the  doorway,  and  stood 
still  to  have  a  conversation  with  her,  intending  to  discover 
something  more  positive. 

"  Good  morning,  Perpetua,  I  hoped  we  should  have  been 
merry  to-day  altogether." 

*'  But!  as  Heaven  wills,  my  poor  Renzo  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  kindness.  The  Signor  Curate 
has  been  making  a  long  story  of  certain  reasons  which  I  can 


22  MANZONI 

not  well  understand;  will  you  explain  to  me  better  why  he 
cannot  or  will  not  marry  us  to-day?  " 

''  Oh!  is  it  likely  I  know  my  master's  secrets?" 

— I  said  there  was  some  hidden  mystery,  thought  Renzo; 
and  to  draw  it  forth  to  the  light,  he  continued:  "  Come,  Per- 
petua,  we  are  friends;  tell  me  what  you  know,  help  an  unfor- 
tunate youth." 
■J;^  It  is  a  bad  thing  to  be  born  poor,  my  dear  Renzo." 

"  That  is  true,"  replied  he,  still  confirming  himself  in  his 
suspicions,  and  seeking  to  come  nearer  the  question,  "  that 
is  true;  but  is  it  for  a  priest  to  deal  hardly  with  the  poor?  " 

"Listen,  Renzo,  I  can  tell  you  nothing;  because  .  .  .  . 
I  know  nothing;  but  what  you  may  assure  yourself  of,  is, 
that  my  master  does  not  wish  to  ill-treat  you,  or  anybody; 
and  it  is  not  his  fault." 

''Whose  fault  is  it  then?"  demanded  Renzo,  with  an  air 
of  indifference,  but  with  an  anxious  heart,  and  ears  on  the 
alert. 

"  When  I  tell  you  I  know  nothing  ....  In  defence  of 
my  master  I  can  speak;  because  I  can't  bear  to  hear  that  he 
is  ready  to  do  ill  to  any  one.  Poor  man!  if  he  does  wrong, 
it  is  from  too  good  nature.  There  certainly  are  some 
wretches  in  the  world,  overbearing  tyrants,  men  without  the 
fear  of  God  .  .  .  ." 

•  > — Tyrants!  wretches!  thought  Renzo:  are  not  these  the 
great  men?  "  Come,"  said  he,  with  difficulty  hiding  his  in- 
creasing agitation,  "  come,  tell  me  who  it  is." 

"Oh,  oh!  you  want  to  make  me  speak;  and  I  cannot 
speak,  because  ....  I  know  nothing;  when  I  know  noth- 
ing, it  is  the  same  as  if  I  had  taken  an  oath  not  to  tell.  You 
might  put  me  to  the  rack,  and  you  would  get  nothing  from 
my  mouth.  Good-bye;  it  is  lost  time  for  you  and  me  both." 
So  saying,  she  quickly  entered  the  garden,  and  shut  the  door. 
Renzo,  having  returned  her  farewell,  turned  back,  with  a 
quiet  step,  that  she  might  not  hear  which  way  he  took;  but 
when  he  got  beyond  reach  of  the  good  woman's  ears,  he 
quickened  his  pace;  in  a  moment  he  was  at  Don  Abbondio's 
door,  entered,  went  straight  to  the  room  in  which  he  had  left 
him,  found  him  there,  and  went  towards  him  with  a  reckless 
bearing,  and  eyes  glancing  anger. 

"Eh!  eh!  what  new  thing  is  this?"  said  Don  Abbondio. 

"  Who  is  that  tyrant,"  said  Renzo,  with  the  voice  of  a 
man  who  is  determined  to  obtain  a  precise  reply,  "  who  is  the 
tyrant  who  is  unwilling  that  I  should  marry  Lucia?" 

"What?  what?  what?"  stammered    the    astonished    poor 


THE   BETROTHED 


23 


man,  his  face  in  a  moment  becoming  pale,  and  colourless  as 
a  rag  just  emerged  from  the  washing-tub:  then,  still  stam- 
mering, he  made  a  start  from  his  arm-chair,  to  dart  toward 
the  door.  But  Renzo,  who  might  have  expected  this  move- 
ment, was  on  the  alert,  sprang  there  before  him,  locked  it, 
and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

''Ah!  ah!  Will  you  speak  nozv,  Signor  Curate?  Every- 
body knows  my  affairs,  except  myself.  But,  by  Bacchus,  I 
too  will  know.     What  is  his  name?" 

"  Renzo!  Renzo!  for  charity,  take  care  what  you  are 
about;  think  of  your  soul." 

''  I  am  thinking  that  I  will  know  it  quickly,  in  a  moment." 
And  as  he  spoke,  perhaps  without  being  aware  of  it,  he  laid 
his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  dagger  which  projected  from  his 
pocket. 

"  Misericordia! "  exclaimed  Don  Abbondio,  in  a  feeble 
voice. 

"  I  will  know  it." 

"Who  has  told  you?" 

"  No,  no;  no  more  trickery.  Speak  positively  and 
quickly." 

''  Do  you  wish  me  to  be  killed?  " 

"  I  w4sh  to  know  what  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"But  if  I  speak,  I'm  a  dead  man!  Surely  I'm  not  to 
trample  on  my  own  life?  " 

"  Then  speak." 

This  then  was  pronounced  with  such  energy,  and  Renzo's 
face  became  so  threatening,  that  Don  Abbondio  could  no 
longer  entertain  a  hope  of  the  possibility  of  disobedience. 

"  Promise  me — swear  to  me,"  said  he,  "  not  to  speak  of  it 
to  any  one,  never  to  tell  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  promise  you,  sir,  that  I  will  do  an  ill  deed,  if  you  don't 
tell  me  quick — quick,  his  name !  " 

At  this  new  adjuration,  Don  Abbondio,  with  the  face  and 
look  of  a  man  who  has  the  pincers  of  the  dentist  in  his  mouth, 
articulated,  "  Don  .  .  .  ." 

"  Don?  "  repeated  Renzo,  as  if  to  help  the  patient  to  utter 
the  rest;  while  he  stood  bending  forward,  his  ear  turned  to- 
wards the  open  mouth  of  Don  Abbondio,  his  arm.s  stretched 
out,  and  his  clenched  fists  behind  him. 

"Don  Rodrigo!"  hastily  uttered  the  compelled  curate, 
making  a  rush  at  these  few  syllables,  and  gliding  over  the  con- 
sonants, partly  through  excitement,  partly  because,  exercis- 
ing the  little  judgment  that  was  left  him,  to  steer  his  way  be- 
twixt the  two  fears,  it  appeared  that  he  wished  to  withdraw 


24 


MANZONI 


the  word  and  make  it  invisible  at  tlie  very  moment  he  was 
constrained  to  give  utterance  to  it. 

"Ah,  dog!"  shouted  Renzo;  "and  how  has  he  done  it? 
And  what  has  he  said  to  .  .  .  .?" 

"How,  eh?  how?"  rephed  Don  Abbondio,  in  an  indig- 
nant voice,  as  it  were;  feehng  after  so  great  a  sacrifice,  that  he 
had,  in  a  manner,  become  a  creditor.  "  How,  eh?  I  wish 
it  had  happened  to  you,  as  it  has  to  me,  who  have  not  put  my 
foot  in  it  for  nothing;  for  then,  certainly,  you  would  not  have 
so  many  crotchets  in  your  head."  And  here  he  began  to 
depict  in  dreadful  colours  the  terrible  encounter.  As  he  pro- 
ceeded in  the  description,  he  began  to  realize  the  wrath  which 
hitherto  had  been  concealed,  or  changed  into  fear;  and  per- 
ceiving at  the  same  time  that  Renzo,  between  anger  and  con- 
fusion, stood  motionless,  with  his  head  downward,  he  con- 
tinued triumphantly:  "You  have  done  a  pretty  deed!  Nice 
treatment  you  have  given  me!  To  serve  such  a  trick  to  an 
honest  man,  to  your  curate — in  his  own  house — in  a  sacred 
place!  You  have  done  a  fine  action,  to  force  from  my  lips  my 
own  ruin  and  yours,  that  v/hich  I  concealed  from  you  in  pru- 
dence, for  your  own  good!  And  now,  when  you  do  know  it, 
how  much  wiser  are  you?  I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
would  have  done  to  me!  No  joking  here,  no  question  of 
right  and  wrong,  but  mere  force.  And  this  .morning,  when  I 
gave  you  good  advice  ....  eh!  in  a  rage  directly.  I  had 
judgment  enough  for  myself,  and  you  too;  but  how  does  it 
go  now?     Open  the  door,  however;  give  me  my  key." 

"  I  may  have  been  wrong,"  replied  Renzo,  with  a  voice 
softened  toward  Don  Abbondio,  but  in  which  suppressed 
rage  against  his  newly-disecovered  enemy  might  be  perceived; 
"  I  may  have  been  wrong;  but  put  your  hand  to  your  heart, 
and  think  whether  in  my  case  .  .  .  ." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  key  from  his  pocket,  and  went 
to  open  the  door.  Don  Abbondio  stood  behind;  and  while 
Renzo  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  he  came  beside  him,  and 
with  a  serious  and  anxious  face,  holding  up  three  fingers  of 
his  right  hand,  as  if  to  help  him  in  his  turn,  he  said,  "  Swear  at 
least." 

"  I  may  have  been  wrong,  and  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir," 
answered  Renzo,  opening  the  door,  and  preparing  to  go  out. 

"  Swear  .  .  .  ."  replied  Don  Abbondio,  seizing  him  by 
the  arm  with  a  trembling  hand. 

"  I  may  have  been  wrong,"  repeated  Renzo,  as  he  ex- 
tricated himself  from  him,  and  departed  with  vehement  haste, 
thus  cutting  short  a  discussion  which,  like  many  a  question  of 


THE   BETROTHED  2$ 

philosophy,  or  literature,  or  something  else,  might  have  been 
prolonged  six  centuries,  since  each  party  did  nothing  but  re- 
peat his  own  arguments. 

''Perpetual — Perpetual"  cried  Don  Abbondio,  after  hav- 
ing in  vain  called  back  the  fugitive.  Perpetua  answered  not: 
Don  Abbondio  then  lost  all  consciousness  of  where  he  was. 

It  has  happened  more  than  once  to  personages  of  much 
greater  importance  than  Don  Abbondio,  to  find  themselves 
in  extremities  so  trying  to  the  flesh,  in  such  perplexity  of 
plans,  that  it  has  appeared  to  them  their  best  resource  to  go 
to  bed  with  a  fever.  This  resource  Don  Abbondio  had 
not  to  seek  for,  because  it  offered  itself  to  him  of  its  own  ac- 
cord. The  fright  of  the  day  before,  the  harassing  sleepless- 
ness of  the  night,  the  additional  fright  in  the  morning,  anx- 
iety about  the  future,  had  produced  this  effect.  Perplexed 
and  bewildered,  he  rested  himself  on  his  arm-chair;  he  began 
to  feel  a  certain  quaking  of  the  bones,  he  looked  at  his  nails 
and  sighed,  and  called  from  time  to  time,  with  a  tremulous 
and  anxious  voice — "Perpetua!"  Perpetua  arrived  at 
length,  with  a  great  cabbage  under  her  arm,  and  a  business- 
like face,  as  if  nothing  had  been  the  matter.  I  spare  the 
reader  the  lamentations,  condolences,  accusations,  defences, 
the — "  You  only  can  have  spoken,"  and  the — "  I  have  not 
spoken  " — all  the  recriminations,  in  short,  of  this  colloquy. 
Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  Don  Abbondio  ordered  Perpetua  to 
fasten  the  doors  well;  not  to  put  foot  outside;  and  if  any  one 
knocked,  to  answer  from  the  window,  that  the  curate  was 
confined  to  his  bed  with  a  fever.  He  then  slowly  ascended 
the  stairs,  repeating  at  every  third  step,  "  I  have  caught  it!  " 
and  really  went  to  bed,  w^here  we  will  leave  him. 

Renzo,  meanwhile,  walked  w4th  an  excited  step  toward 
home,  without  having  determined  what  he  ought  to  do,  but 
with  a  mad  longing  to  do  something  strange  and  terrible. 
The  unjust  and  oppressive,  all  those,  in  fact,  who  wrong 
others,  are  guilty  not  only  of  the  evil  they  do  but  also  of  the 
perversion  of  mind  they  cause  in  those  whom  they  offend. 
Renzo  was  a  young  man  of  peaceful  disposition  and  averse 
to  violence;  sincere,  and  one  who  abhorred  deceit;  but  at 
this  moment  his  heart  panted  for  murder:  his  mind  was  oc- 
cupied only  in  devising  a  plot.  He  would  have  wished  to 
hasten  to  Don  Rodrigo's  house,  to  seize  him  by  the  throat, 
and  ....  but  he  remembered  that  his  house  was  like  a  for- 
tress, garrisoned  with  bravoes  within,  and  guarded  without; 
that  only  friends  and  servants,  well  known,  could  enter  freely, 
without  being  searched  from  head  to  foot;  that  an  artisan,  if 


26  MANZONI 

unknown,  could  not  put  foot  within  It  without  an  examination ; 
and  that  he,  above  all  ...  .  he  probably  would  be  too  well 
known.  He  then  fancied  himself  taking  his  fowling-piece, 
planting  himself  behind  a  hedge,  looking  out  whether  his 
enemy  would  ever,  ever  pass  by,  unaccompanied;  and  dwell- 
ing with  ferocious  complacency  on  this  thought,  he  imagined 
the  sound  of  a  step;  at  this  sound  he  raises  his  head  without 
noise;  recognizes  the  wretch,  raises  the  fowling-piece,  takes 
aim — fires;  sees  him  fall  and  struggle,  bestows  a  malediction 
on  him,  and  escapes  in  safety  beyond  the  borders. — And  Lu- 
cia?— Scarcely  had  this  word  come  across  these  dreadful 
phantasies,  when  the  better  thoughts  with  which  Renzo  was 
familiarized  crowded  into  his  mind.  He  recalled  the  dying 
I  charge  of  his  parents.  The  thought  of  God,  of  the  Blessed 
I  Virgin,  and  of  the  saints,  returned  upon  him;  he  remembered 
vj  the  consolation  he  had  so  often  experienced  from  the  recol- 
j|  lection  that  he  was  free  from  crimes ;  he  remembered  the 
'''  horror  with  which  he  had  so  often  received  the  news  of  a 
murder;  and  he  awoke  from  this  dream  of  blood  with  fear, 
with  remorse,  and  yet  with  a  sort  of  joy  that  he  had  but  im- 
agined it.  But  the  thought  of  Lucia — how  many  thoughts  it 
brought  along  with  it!  So  many  hopes,  so  many  promises, 
a  future  so  bright,  so  secure,  and  this  day  so  longed  for!  And 
how,  with  what  words  announce  to  her  such  news?  And 
afterwards,  what  was  to  be  done?  How  were  their  plans  to 
be  accomplished,  in  spite  of  this  powerful  and  wicked  enemy? 
Along  with  all  this,  not  a  defined  suspicion,  but  a  tormenting 
shadow  flitted  every  moment  through  his  mind.  This  over- 
bearing act  of  Don  Rodrigo  could  have  no  motive  but  a  law- 
less passion  for  Lucia.  And  Lucia!  could  she  have  given 
him  the  smallest  encouragement,  the  most  distant  hope?  It 
was  a  thought  which  could  not  dwell  for  an  instant  in  his 
mJnd.  But  was  she  aware  of  it?  Could  he  have  conceived 
this  infamous  passion  without  her  perceiving  it?  Could  he 
have  carried  matters  so  far,  without  having  made  an  attempt 
In  some  other  manner?  And  Lucia  had  never  mentioned  a 
word  of  It  to  him,  her  betrothed! 

Overcome  by  these  thoughts,  he  passed  by  his  own  house, 
which  was  situated  In  the  middle  of  the  village,  and  proceed- 
ing through  it,  came  to  that  of  Lucia,  which  stood  at  the  op- 
posite end.  This  cottage  had  a  little  garden  in  front,  which 
separated  it  from  the  road;  and  the  garden  was  surrounded 
by  a  low  wall.  As  Renzo  entered  the  garden,  he  heard  a 
confused  and  continual  murmur  of  voices  from  an  upper 
room.     He  supposed  It  was  friends  and  companions  come  to 


THE   BETROTHED  2/ 

greet  Lucia;  and  he  did  not  wish  to  show  himself  to  this  com- 
pany with  the  sad  news  he  had  to  communicate  visible  in  his 
face.  A  little  girl,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  garden,  ran  to 
meet  him,  crying,  "The  bridegroom!  the  bridegroom!" 

"Gently,  Bettina,  gently!"  said  Renzo.  "Come  here; 
go  up  to  Lucia,  take  her  on  one  side  and  whisper  in  her  ear 
....  but  mind  no  one  hears,  or  suspects  ....  tell  her  I 
want  to  speak  to  her,  and  that  I'm  waiting  in  the  down-stairs 
room,  and  that  she  must  come  immediately."  The  child  ran 
quickly  up-stairs,  delighted  and  proud  to  be  entrusted  with  a 
secret. 

Lucia  had  just  come  forth  adorned  from  head  to  foot  by 
the  hands  of  her  mother.  Her  friends  were  stealing  glances 
at  the  bride,  and  forcing  her  to  show  herself;  while  she,  with 
the  somewhat  warlike  modesty  of  a  rustic,  was  endeavouring 
to  escape,  using  her  arms  as  a  shield  for  her  face,  and  hold- 
ing her  head  downwards,  her  black  pencilled  eyebrows  seem- 
ing to  frown,  while  her  lips  were  smiling.  Her  dark  and  lux- 
uriant hair,  divided  on  her  forehead  with  a  white  and  narrow 
parting,  was  united  behind  in  many-circled  plaitings,  pierced 
with  long  silver  pins,  disposed  around,  so  as  to  look  like  an 
aureola  or  saintly  glory,  a  fashion  still  in  use  among  the  Mi- 
lanese peasant-girls.  Round  her  neck  she  had  a  necklace  of 
garnets,  alternated  with  beads  of  filigree  gold.  She  wore  a 
pretty  bodice  of  flowered  brocade,  laced  with  coloured  rib- 
bons, a  short  gown  of  embroidered  silk,  plaited  in  close  and 
minute  folds,  scarlet  stockings,  and  a  pair  of  shoes  also  of  em- 
broidered silk.  Besides  these,  which  were  the  special  orna- 
ments of  her  wedding-day,  Lucia  had  the  every-day  ornament 
of  a  modest  beauty,  displayed  at  this  time,  and  increased  by 
the  varied  feelings  which  were  depicted  in  her  face:  joy  tem- 
pered by  a  slight  confusion,  that  placid  sadness  which  occa- 
sionally shows  itself  on  the  face  of  a  bride,  and  without  injur- 
ing her  beauty,  gives  it  an  air  peculiar  to  itself.  The  little 
Bettina  made  her  way  among  the  talkers,  came  close  up  to 
Lucia,  cleverly  made  her  understand  that  she  had  something 
to  communicate,  and  whispered  her  little  message  in  her  ear. 
"  I  am  going  for  a  moment,  and  will  be  back  directly,"  said 
Lucia  to  her  friends,  and  hastily  descended  the  stairs. 

On  seeing  the  changed  look  and  the  unquiet  manner  of 
Renzo,  "  What  is  the  matter?  "  she  exclaimed,  not  without  a 
presentiment  of  terror. 

"Lucia!"  replied  Renzo,  "it  is  all  up  for  to-day;  and 
God  knows  when  we  can  be  man  and  wife." 

"  What?  "  said  Lucia,  altogether  amazed.     Renzo  briefly 


28  MANZONI 

related  to  her  the  events  of  the  morning;  she  listened  in 
great  distress;  and  when  she  heard  the  name  of  Don  Rodrigo, 
"  Ah !  "  she  exclaimed,  blushing  and  trembling,  ''  has  it  come 
to  this  point!  " 

''  Then  you  knew  it?  "  said  Renzo. 

"  Indeed  too  well,"  answered  Lucia,  ''  but  to  this  point!  " 

"  What  did  you  know  about  it?  " 

"  Don't  make  me  speak  now,  don't  make  me  cry.  I  will 
run  and  call  my  mother,  and  send  away  the  girls.  We  must 
be  alone." 

While  she  was  going,  Renzo  murmured,  "  You  never 
told  me  anything  about  it." 

"Ah,  Renzo!"  replied  Lucia,  turning  round  for  a  mo- 
ment without  stopping.  Renzo  understood  very  well  that  his 
name  so  pronounced  by  Lucia,  at  that  moment,  in  such  a 
tone,  meant  to  say,  Can  you  doubt  that  I  could  be  silent,  ex- 
cept on  just  and  pure  motives? 

By  this  time  the  good  Agnese  (so  Lucia's  mother  was 
named),  incited  to  suspicion  and  curiosity  by  the  whisper  in 
her  ear — had  come  down  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  Her 
daughter,  leaving  her  with  Renzo,  returned  to  the  assembled 
maidens,  and,  composing  her  voice  and  manner  as  w^ell  as  she 
could,  said,  "  The  Signor  Curate  is  ill,  and  nothing  will  be 
done  to-day."  This  said,  she  hastily  bid  them  good-bye,  and 
went  down  again.  The  company  departed,  and  dispersed 
themselves  through  the  village,  to  recount  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  to  find  out  whether  Don  Abbondio  was  really  ill. 
The  discovery  of  the  fact  cut  short  all  the  conjectures  which 
had  already  begun  to  work  in  their  minds,  and  to  be  discov- 
ered undefined  and  mysteriously  in  their  words. 


CHAPTER    III 

WHILE  Renzo  was  relating  with  pain  what  Agnese 
with  pain  Hstened  to,  Lucia  entered  the  room. 
They  both  turned  toward  her;  she  indeed  knew 
more  about  it  than  they,  and  of  her  they  awaited  an 
explanation  which  could  not  but  be  distressing.  In  the  midst 
of  their  sorrow  they  both,  according  to  the  different  na- 
ture of  the  love  they  bore  Lucia,  discovered  in  their  own 
manner  a  degree  of  anger  that  she  had  concealed  anything 
from  them,  especially  of  such  a  nature.  Agnese,  although 
anxious  to  hear  her  daughter  speak,  could  not  refrain  from  a 
slight  reproof,  '*  To  say  nothing  to  your  mother  in  such  a 
case!" 

"  Now  I  will  tell  you  all,"  answered  Lucia,  as  she  dried  her 
eyes  with  her  apron. 

"Speak,  speak! — Speak,  speak!"  at  once  cried  both 
mother  and  lover. 

"Most  Holy  Virgin!"  exclaimed  Lucia,  "who  could 
have  believed  it  would  have  come  to  this !  "  Then  with  a 
voice  tremulous  with  weeping,  she  related  how,  as  she  was  re- 
turning from  her  spinniag,  and  had  loitered  behind  her  com- 
panions, Don  Rodrigo,  in  company  with  another  gentleman, 
had  passed  by  her;  that  he  had  tried  to  engage  her  in  foolish 
talk,  as  she  called  it •;  but  she,  without  giving  him  an  answer, 
had  quickened  her  pace,  and  joined  her  companions;  then  she 
had  heard  the  other  gentleman  laugh  loudly,  and  Don  Rodrigo 
say,  "  I'll  lay  you  a  wager."  The  next  day  they  were  again 
on  the  road,  but  Lucia  was  in  the  midst  of  her  companions 
with  her  eyes  on  the  ground;  when  the  other  gentleman 
laughed,  and  Don  Rodrigo  said,  "  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see." 
"  This  day,"  continued  Lucia,  "  thank  God,  was  the  last  of  the 
spinning.     I  related  immediately  .  .  .  ." 

"  Who  was  it  you  told  it  to?  "  demanded  Agnese,  waiting, 
not  without  a  little  displeasure,  for  the  name  of  the  confidante 
who  had  been  preferred. 

"  To  father  Cristoforo,  in  confession,  mamma,"  replied 
Lucia,  with  a  sweet  tone  of  apology.     "  I  related  the  whole 

29 


30 


MANZONI 


to  him,  the  last  time  we  went  to  church  together,  at  the  con- 
vent: and  if  you  noticed  that  morning  I  kept  putting  my  hand 
to  one  thing  and  another,  to  pass  the  time  till  other  people 
were  on  the  road,  that  we  might  go  in  company  with  them; 
because,  after  that  meeting,  the  roads  make  me  so  frightened." 

At  the  reverend  name  of  father  Cristoforo,  the  wrath  of 
Agnese  subsided.  *' You  did  well,"  said  she;  "but  why  not 
tell  all  to  your  mother  also? " 

Lucia  had  had  two  good  reasons:  one  not  to  distress  and 
frighten  the  good  woman  about  an  event  against  which  she 
could  have  found  no  remedy;  the  other  not  to  run  the  risk 
of  a  story  travelling  from  mouth  to  mouth,  which  she  wished 
to  be  kept  with  jealous  silence;  the  more  so  because  Lucia 
hoped  that  her  marriage  would  have  cut  short  at  the  begin- 
ning this  abominated  persecution.  Of  these  two  reasons  she 
alleged  only  the  first.  "  And  to  you,"  said  she,  turning  to 
Renzo,  with  that  tone  which  reminds  a  friend  that  he  is  un- 
reasonable— "  and  to  you  coitid  I  speak  about  this?  Surely 
you  know  too  much  of  it  now !  " 

"  And  what  did  the  father  say  to  you?  "  asked  Agnese. 

"  He  told  me  that  I  must  try  to  hasten  the  wedding  as 
much  as  I  could,  and  in  the  mean  time  to  keep  myself  within- 
doors; that  I  should  pray  to  the  Lord;  and  he  hoped  that 
this  man,  if  he  did  not  see  me,  would  not  care  any  more  about 
me.  And  it  was  then  that  I  forced  myself,"  continued  she, 
turning  again  toward  Renzo,  without  however  raising  her 
eyes,  and  blushing  to  the  temples,  "  it  was  then  that  I  put  on 
a  too  bold  face,  and  begged  you  to  get  it  done  soon,  and  have 
it  concluded  before  the  fixed  time.  Who  knows  what  you 
must  have  thought  of  me!  But  I  did  it  for  good,  and  it  was 
advised  me,  and  I  thought  for  certain  ....  and  this  morn- 
ing I  was  so  far  from  thinking." 

Here  Lucia's  words  were  cut  short  by  a  violent  burst  of 
tears. 

"Ah,  rascal!  wretch!  murderer!"  exclaimed  Renzo, 
striding  backward  and  forward  across  the  room,  and  grasp- 
ing from  time  to  time  the  hilt  of  his  dagger. 

"Oh,  heavens,  what  a  fury!"  exclaimed  Agnese.  The 
young  man  suddenly  drew  himself  up  before  Lucia,  who  was 
weeping,  looked  at  her  with  an  anxious  and  embittered  ten- 
derness, and  said,  "  This  is  the  last  deed  this  assassin 
shall  do." 

"Ah,  no,  Renzo,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  cried  Lucia;  "no, 
no,  for  Heaven's  sake!  God  is  on  the  side  of  the  poor,  and 
how  can  we  expect  him  to  help  us  If  we  do  wrong?  "^ 


THE    BETROTHED 


31 


"  No,  no,  for  Heaven's  sake !  "  echoed  Agnese. 

"  Renzo,"  said  Lucia,  with  an  air  of  hope  and  more  tran- 
quil resokition,  "  you  have  a  trade,  and  I  know  how  to  work; 
let  us  go  so  far  off  that  this  man  will  hear  no  more  about  us." 

"Ah,  Lucia!  and  what  then?  We  are  not  yet  man  and 
wife!  Will  the  curate  give  us  a  certificate  of  no  impediment, 
such  a  man  as  he  is?     If  we  were  married,  oh  then!  " 

Lucia  began  to  weep  again,  and  all  three  remained  silent, 
giving  signs  of  depression  which  contrasted  strangely  with 
the  festive  gaiety  of  their  dress. 

''  Listen,  my  children;  attend  to  me,"  said  Agnese,  after 
some  moments;  *'  I  came  into  the  world  long  before  you; 
and  I  know  something  about  the  world.  You  need  not 
frighten  yourselves  too  much:  things  are  not  so  bad  as  peo- 
ple make  out.  To  us  poor  people  the  skein  seems  more  en- 
tangled because  we  cannot  get  hold  of  the  right  end;  but 
sometimes  a  piece  of  good  advice,  a  little  talk  with  a  man  who 
has  got  learning  ....  I  know  well  enough  what  I  would 
say.  Do  as  I  tell  you,  Renzo;  go  to  Lecco,  seek  for  Dr.  Az- 
zecca-Garbugli,  tell  him  all  about  it — but  mind  you  don't  call 
him  so,  for  Heaven's  sake:  it's  a  nick-name.  You  must  tell 
the  Signor  Doctor — What  in  the  world  do  they  call  him? 
Oh  dear!  I  don't  know  his  right  name;  everybody  calls  him 
so.  Never  mind,  seek  for  this  doctor;  he  is  tall,  thin,  bald, 
with  a  red  nose  and  a  raspberry-coloured  mole  on  his  cheek." 

"  I  know  him  by  sight,"  said  Renzo. 

''Well,"  continued  Agnese,  ''he  is  a  man!  I  have  seen 
more  than  one  person,  bothered  like  a  chicken  in  a  bundle 
of  hemp,  who  did  not  know  where  to  put  his  head,  and 
after  being  an  hour  nose  to  nose  with  the  Dr.  Azzecca-Gar- 
bugli  (take  good  care  you  don't  call  him  so) — I  have  seen  him, 
I  say,  make  a  joke  of  it.  Take  these  four  capons,  poor  crea- 
tures! whose  necks  I  ought  to  have  wrung  for  to-night's  sup- 
per, and  carry  them  to  him;  because  we  must  never  go  empty- 
handed  to  these  gentlemen.  Relate  to  him  all  that  has  hap- 
pened, and  you'll  see  he  will  tell  you,  in  a  twinkling,  things 
which  would  not  come  into  our  heads  if  we  were  to  think 
about  them  for  a  year." 

Renzo  willingly  embraced  this  counsel;  Lucia  approved 
it;  and  Agnese,  proud  of  having  given  it,  took  the  poor  crea- 
tures one  by  one  from  the  hen-coop,  united  their  eight  legs, 
as  one  makes  up  a  bunch  of  flowers,  tied  them  up  with  a 
piece  of  string,  and  consigned  them  to  the  hands  of  Renzo, 
who,  after  giving  and  receiving  words  of  encouragement  and 
hope,  went  out  by  a  little  gate  from  the  garden,  that  he  might 


32 


MANZONI 


escape  the  observation  of  the  boys,  who  would  have  run  after 
him,  crying,  ''The  bridegroom!  the  bridegroom!"  Thus, 
having  crossed  the  fields,  or,  as  they  call  them  there,  the  places, 
he  continued  his  route  along  narrow  lanes,  giving  utterance 
to  his  bitter  thoughts,  as  he  reflected  on  his  misfortune,  and 
considering  what  he  must  say  to  the  Dr.  Azzecca-Garbugli. 
I  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  think  how  the  journey  was  enjoyed 
by  those  poor  creatures,  so  bound  together,  and  held  by  the 
feet  with  their  heads  downward,  in  the  hand  of  a  man  who, 
agitated  by  so  many  passions,  accompanied  with  appropriate 
gestures  the  thoughts  which  rushed  tumultuously  through  his 
mind;  and  in  moments  of  anger  or  determination,  suddenly 
extending  his  arm,  inflicted  terrible  shocks  upon  them,  and 
caused  those  four  pendent  heads  to  bob  violently,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  expression;  they,  meanwhile,  vigorously  applying 
themselves  to  peck  each  other,  as  too  often  happens  among 
friends  in  adversity. 

Arriving  at  the  village,  he  inquired  for  the  Doctor's  house, 
and  when  it  was  pointed  out  to  him,  quickly  made  his  way 
thither.  On  approaching  it,  however,  he  began  to  feel  that 
bashfulness  so  usual  with  the  poor  and  ignorant  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  gentleman  or  man  of  learning,  and  forgot  all  the  fine 
speeches  he  had  prepared;  but  a  glance  at  the  chickens  he 
carried  in  his  hand  restored  his  courage.  He  went  into  the 
kitchen,  and  asked  the  maid-servant  if  he  could  see  the  Signor 
Doctor.  The  woman  looked  at  the  birds,  and,  as  if  ac- 
customed to  such  presents,  was  about  to  take  them  in  her 
hand,  but  Renzo  held  them  back,  because  he  wanted  the  Doc- 
tor to  see  he  had  brought  something  with  him.  Just  at  this 
moment,  the  wished-for  personage  made  his  appearance,  as 
the  servant  was  saying,  "  Give  them  here,  and  go  forward  to 
the  study."  Renzo  made  a  low  bow  to  the  Doctor,  who  gra- 
ciously bade  him  "  Come  in,  my  son,"  and  took  him  into  his 
study.  It  was  a  large  room,  decorated  on  three  sides  with 
portraits  of  the  twelve  Csesars;  the  remaining  wall  was  hid- 
den by  a  large  bookcase,  filled  with  old  and  dusty  books:  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  table  covered  with  extracts, 
petitions,  libels,  and  proclamations:  three  or  four  chairs  were 
scattered  around,  and  on  one  side  was  a  large  arm-chair,  with 
a  high  square  back,  terminating  at  the  corners  in  two  horn- 
shaped  ornaments  of  wood,  and  covered  with  leather,  fastened 
down  with  large  nails.  Some  of  these  had  fallen  out,  so  that 
the  leather  curled  up  here  and  there  at  pleasure,  leaving  the 
corners  unencumbered.  The  Doctor  was  in  his  dressing- 
gown;  that  is  to  say,  he  had  on  a  faded  robe,  which  had 


THE   BETROTHED  33 

served  him  for  many  years  to  harangue  in  on  days  of  state, 
when  he  went  to  Milan  on  any  important  cause.  Having  shut 
the  door,  he  re-animated  the  young  man's  confidence  with 
these  words:  "  Tell  me  your  case,  my  son." 

"  I  wish  to  speak  a  word  to  you  in  confidence." 

''  I'm  ready — speak,"  replied  the  Doctor,  seating  himself 
on  his  arm-chair. 

Renzo  stood  before  the  table,  and  twirling  his  hat  with 
his  right  hand  round  the  other,  continued:  ''  I  want  to  know 
from  you,  who  have  studied  .  .  .  ." 

''  Tell  me  the  case  as  it  is,"  interrupted  the  Doctor. 

"  Excuse  me,  Signor  Doctor:  we  poor  people  don't  know 
how  to  speak  properly.     I  want,  then,  to  know  .  .  .  ." 

"  Blessed  set  you  are!  You  are  all  alike.  Instead  of  re- 
lating your  case,  you  ask  questions,  because  you've  already 
made  up  your  minds." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Signor  Doctor.  I  want  to  know  if 
there's  any  punishment  for  threatening  a  curate,  and  forbid- 
ding him  to  celebrate  a  marriage?" 

''  I  understand,"  muttered  the  Doctor,  who  in  truth  had 
not  understood;  '*  I  understand."  He  then  put  on  a  serious 
face;  but  it  was  a  seriousness  mingled  with  an  air  of  com- 
passion and  importance;  and,  pressing  his  lips,  he  uttered  an 
inarticulate  sound,  betokening  a  sentiment,  afterward  more 
clearly  expressed  in  his  first  words.  *'  A  serious  case,  my  son, 
There  are  laws  to  the  point.  You  have  done  well  to  come  to 
me.  It  is  a  clear  case,  recognized  in  a  hundred  proclamations, 
and  ....  stay!  in  an  edict  of  the  last  year,  by  the  present 
Signor  Governor.     I'll  let  you  see  it  and  handle  it  directly." 

So  saying,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  hunted  through  the 
chaos  of  papers,  shovelling  the  lower  ones  uppermost  with  his 
hands,  as  if  he  were  throwing  corn  into  a  measure. 

"Where  can  it  be?  Come  nearer,  come  nearer.  One  is 
obliged  to  have  so  many  things  in  hand!  But  it  must  surely 
be  here,  for  it  is  a  proclamation  of  importance.  Ah!  here  it 
is,  here  it  is!"  He  took  it,  unfolded  it,  looked  at  the  date, 
and  with  a  still  more  serious  face,  continued :  "  The  fifteenth 
of  October,  1627.  Certainly;  it  is  last  year's;  a  fresh  procla- 
mation; it  is  these  that  cause  such  fear.  Can  you  read,  my 
son?" 

"  A  little,  Signor  Doctor." 

"  Very  well,  follow  me  with  your  eye,  and  you  shall  see." 

And  holding  the  edict  displayed  in  the  air,  he  began  to 
read,  rapidly  muttering  some  passages,  and  pausing  distinctly, 
with  marked  emphasis,  upon  others,  as  the  case  required. 
3 


,4  MANZONI 

"  '  xMthough  in  the  proclamation  published  by  order  of  the 
Signor  Duke  of  Feria,  the  14th  December,  1620,  and  con- 
firmed by  the  Most  Illustrious  and  Most  Excellent  Signor, 
the  Signor  Gonzalo  Fernandez  de  Cordova,  etc.,  there  was 
provision  made,  by  extraordinary  and  rigorous  measures, 
against  oppressions,  commotions,  and  tyrannical  acts  that 
some  persons  dare  to  commit  against  the  devoted  subjects  of 
his  Majesty;  nevertheless,  the  frequency  of  crimes  and  vio- 
lences, etc.,  has  increased  to  such  a  degree,  that  his  Exceliency 
is  under  the  necessity,  etc.  Wherefore,  with  the  concurrence 
of  the  Senate  and  a 'Council,  etc.,  he  has  resolved  to  publish 
the  present  edict. 

"  '  And,  to  begin  with  tyrannical  acts,  experience  showing, 
that  many,  as  well  in  cities,  as  in  the  country,'  Do  you  hear? 
*  excite  commotions  in  this  state  by  violence,  and  oppress  the 
weak  in  various  ways,  as,  for  example,  by  compelling  them 
to  make  hard  bargains  in  purchases,  rents,  etc./  where  am  I? 
ah!  here!  look — 'to  perform  or  not  to  perform  mar- 
riages; '  eh!  " 

"  That  is  my  case,"  said  Renzo. 
■  "**  Listen,  listen;  there  is  plenty  more;  and  then  we  shall 
see  the  penalty.  '  To  give  evidence,  or  not  to  give  evidence; 
compelling  one  to  leave  his  home,  etc.,  another  to  pay  a 
debt:'  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  us.  Ah!  we  have  it 
here;  'this  priest  not  to  perform  that  to  which  he  is  obliged 
by  his  office,  or  to  do  things  which  do  not  belong  to 
him.'     Eh!" 

''  It  seems  as  if  they  had  made  the  edict  exactly  for 
me." 

*'  Eh!  is  it  not  so?  listen,  listen:  'and  similar  oppressions, 
whether  perpetrated  by  feudatories,  the  nobility,  middle  ranks, 
lower  orders,  or  plebeians.'  No  one  escapes:  they  are  all 
here:  it  is  like  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  Listen  now  to  the 
penalty.  '  All  these,  and  other  such  like  criminal  acts,  al- 
though they  are  prohibited,  nevertheless,  it  being  necessary  to 
use  greater  rigour,  his  Excellency,  not  relenting  in  this  proc- 
lamation, etc.,  enjoins  and  commands  that  against  all  of- 
fenders under  any  of  the  above-mentioned  heads,  or  the  like, 
all  the  ordinary  magistrates  of  the  state  shall  proceed  by 
pecuniary  and  corporal  punishment,  by  banishment  or  the 
galleys,  and  even  by  death '  ....  a  mere  bagatelle !  '  at 
the  will  of  his  Excellency  or  of  the  Senate,  according  to  the 
character  of  the  cases,  persons,  and  circumstances.  And  this 
ir-re-mis-si-bly,  and  with  all  rio^our,  etc'  There's  plenty  of  it 
here,  eh?     And  see,  here's  the  signature:  '  Gonzalo  Fernandez 


THE   BETROTHED 


35 


de  Cordova;'  and  lower  down:  'Platonus;*  and  here  again 
'  Vidit  Ferrer; '  there's  nothing  wanting." 

While  the  Doctor  was  reading,  Renzo  slowly  followed 
him  with  his  eye,  trying  to  draw  out  the  simple  meaning,  and 
to  behold  for  himself  those  blessed  words,  which  he  believed 
were  to  render  him  assistance.  The  Doctor,  seeing  his  new 
client  more  attentive  than  alarmed,  was  greatly  surprised. 
He  must  be  matriculated,  said  he  to  himself — "Ah!  ah!" 
added  he  aloud;  *'  you  have  been  obliged  to  shave  ofif  the 
lock.  You  have  been  prudent:  however,  you  need  not  have 
done  so,  when  putting  yourself  under  my  hands.  The  case 
is  serious;  but  you  don't  know  what  I  have  courage  to  do  in 
a  time  of  need." 

To  understand  this  mistake  of  the  Doctor's,  it  must  be 
known  that  at  that  time  bravoes  by  profession  and  villains 
of  every  kind,  used  to  wear  a  long  lock  of  hair,  which  they 
drew  over  the  face  like  a  visor  on  meeting  any  one,  when  the 
occasion  was  one  which  rendered  disguise  necessary,  and  the 
undertaking  such  as  required  both  force  and  circumspection. 

The  proclamation  had  not  been  silent  with  regard  to  this 
matter.  "  His  Excellency  (the  Marquis  of  La  Hynojosa) 
commands  that  whosoever  shall  wear  his  hair  of  such  a 
length  as  to  cover  his  forehead  as  far  as  the  eyebrows  only, 
or  shall  wear  tresses  either  before  or  behind  the  ears,  shall  in- 
cur the  penalty  of  three  hundred  crowns;  or  in  case  of  in- 
ability, three  years  in  the  galleys  for  the  first  ofifence,  and  for 
the  second,  besides  the  above,  a  severer  penalty  still,  at  the 
will  of  his  Excellency. 

"  However,  in  case  of  baldness  or  other  reasonable  cause, 
as  a  mark  or  wound,  he  gives  permission  to  such,  for  thci. 
greater  decorum  or  health,  to  wear  their  hair  so  long  as  may 
be  necessary  to  cover  such  failings,  and  no  more;  warning 
them  well  to  beware  of  exceeding  the  limits  of  duty  and  pure 
necessity,  that  they  may  not  incur  the  penalty  imposed  upon 
other  dissemblers. 

"  And  he  also  commands  all  barbers,  under  penalty  of  a 
hundred  crowns,  or  three  stripes  to  be  given  them  in  public, 
and  even  greater  corporal  punishment,  at  the  will  of  his  Ex- 
cellency, as  above,  that  they  leave  not  on  those  whom  they 
shave,  any  kind  of  the  said  tresses,  locks,  curls,  or  hair,  longer 
than  usual,  either  on  the  forehead,  temples,  or  behind  the 
ears;  but  that  they  shall  be  all  of  equal  length,  as  above,  ex- 
cept in  case  of  baldness,  or  other  defects,  as  already  de- 
scribed." The  lock,  then,  might  almost  be  considered  a  part  of 
the  arm.our,  and  a  distinctive  mark  of  bravoes  and  vagabonds ; 


36  MANZONI 

so  that  these  characters  very  commonly  bore  the  name  of 
Cktffl,  This  term  is  still  used,  with  a  mitigated  signification, 
in  the  dialect  of  the  country;  and,  perhaps,  there  is  not  one 
of  our  Milanese  readers  who  does  not  remember  hearing  it 
said  of  him,  in  his  childhood,  either  by  his  relatives,  his  tutor, 
or  some  family  friend,  "  He  is  a  CiuiTo;  he  is  a  Ciiiffetto." 

"  On  the  word  of  a  poor  youth,"  replied  Renzo,  ''  I  never 
wore  a  lock  in  my  life." 

*'  I  can  do  nothing,"  replied  the  Doctor,  shaking  his  head, 
with  a  smile  between  malice  and  impatience.  "  If  you  don't 
trust  me,  I  can  do  nothing.  He  who  tells  lies  to  the  lawyer, 
do  you  see,  my  son,  is  a  fool  who  will  tell  the  truth  to  the 
judge.  People  must  relate  matters  clearly  to  the  advocate: 
it  is  our  business  to  make  them  intricate.  If  you  wish  me  to 
help  you,  you  must  tell  me  all  from  a  to  s,  with  your  heart  in 
your  hand,  as  if  to  your  confessor.  You  must  name  the  per- 
son who  has  employed  you.  He  will  most  likely  be  a  person 
of  consequence;  and,  in  that  case,  I  will  go  to  him  to  perform 
an  act  of  duty.  I  shan't,  however,  tell  him,  do  you  see,  that 
you  told  me  he  had  sent  you,  trust  me.  I  will  tell  him  I  come 
to  implore  his  protection  for  a  poor  slandered  youth,  and  will 
take  all  necessary  measures  with  him  to  finish  the  afTair  com- 
mendably.  You  understand,  that,  in  securing  himself,  he 
will  also  secure  you.  Even  if  the  scrape  be  all  your  own,  I 
won't  go  back;  I  have  extricated  others  from  worse  predica- 
ments. And  if  you  have  not  offended  a  person  of  quality,  you 
understand,  I  will  engage  to  get  you  out  of  the  difBculty — 
with  a  little  expense,  you  understand.  You  must  tell  me  who 
is  the  offended  party,  as  they  say;  and,  according  to  the  con- 
dition, rank,  and  temper  of  the  person,  we  shall  see  whether 
it  will  be  better  to  bring  him  to  reason  by  offers  of  protection, 
or,  in  some  way,  to  criminate  him,  and  put  a  flea  in  his  ear; 
because,  you  see,  I  know  very  well  how  to  manage  these 
edicts;  no  one  must  be  guilty,  and  no  one  must  be  innocent. 
'As  to  the  curate,  if  he  has  any  discretion,  he  will  keep  in  the 
background;  if  he  is  a  simpleton,  we  will  dispose  of  him  too. 
One  can  escape  from  any  intrigue;  but  it  requires  one  to 
act  like  a  man;  and  your  case  is  serious — serious,  I  say,  seri- 
ous; the  edict  speaks  clearly;  and  if  the  matter  were  to  be 
decided  between  justice  and  you,  to  say  the  truth,  it  would 
go  hard  with  you.  I  speak  to  you  as  a  friend.  One  must 
pay  for  pranks ;  if  you  wish  to  get  off  clear,  money  and  frank- 
ness— trust  yourself  to  one  who  wishes  you  well;  obey,  and 
do  all  that  is  sugs^ested  to  you." 

While    the    Doctor  poured    forth    this    rhapsody,    Renzo 


THE    BETROTHED 


37 


stood  looking  at  him  with  the  spell-bound  attention  of  a  la- 
bouring man  watching  a  juggler  in  the  street,  who,  after 
thrusting  into  his  mouth  handful  after  handful  of  tow,  draws 
forth  thence  ribbon — ribbon — ribbon — seemingly  without 
end.  When,  at  last,  he  understood  what  the  Doctor  was  say- 
ing, and  the  strange  mistake  he  had  made,  he  cut  short  the 
ribbon  in  his  mouth  with  these  words:  ''  Oh,  Signor  Doctor, 
how  have  you  understood  me?  The  case  is  exactly  the  other 
way.  I  have  threatened  no  one;  I  never  do  such  things,  not 
I;  ask  all  my  neighbours,  and  you  will  hear  I  have  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  law.  The  trick  has  been  played  upon 
me;  and  I  came  to  ask  you  what  I  must  do  to  get  justice,  and 
I  am  very  glad  that  I  have  seen  this  edict." 

"Hang  him!"  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  opening  his  eyes. 
"  What  a  medley  you  have  made!  So  it  is:  you  are  all  alike; 
is  it  possible  you  don't  know  how  to  tell  things  plainly?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Signor  Doctor,  you  didn't  give  me 
time;  now  I  will  relate  the  case  as  it  is.  You  must  know, 
then,  that  I  was  to  have  married  to-day,"  and  here  Renzo's 
voice  became  tremulous — "  I  was  to  have  married  to-day  a 
young  woman  to  whom  I  have  paid  my  addresses  since  the 
beginning  of  summer;  and  this  was  the  day,  as  I  said,  that  was 
fixed  with  the  Signor  Curate,  and  everything  was  ready. 
Well,  this  morning,  the  Signor  Curate  began  to  throw  out 
some  excuses  ....  however,  not  to  tire  you,  I  will  only  say, 
I  made  him  speak,  as  was  but  just;  and  he  confessed  that  he 
had  been  forbidden,  under  pain  of  death,  to  celebrate  this  mar- 
riage.    This  tyrant  of  a  Don  Rodrigo  .  .  .  ." 

"  Get  you  gone!  "  quickly  interrupted  the  Doctor,  raising 
his  eyebrows,  wrinkling  his  red  nose,  and  distorting  his 
mouth ;  "  get  you  gone !  Why  do  you  come  here  to  rack  my 
brain  with  these  lies?  Talk  in  this  way  to  your  companions, 
who  don't  know  the  meaning  of  words,  and  don't  come  and 
utter  them  to  a  gentleman  who  knows  well  what  they  are 
worth.  Go  away,  go  away;  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about;  I  don't  meddle  v/ith  boys;  I  don't  want  to 
hear  talk  of  this  sort:  talk  in  the  air." 

"  I  will  take  an  oath  .  .  .  ." 

"  Get  you  gone,  I  tell  you;  what  do  I  care  for  your  oaths! 
I  won't  enter  into  the  business;  I  wash  my  hands  of  it."  And 
he  began  rubbing  and  twirling  one  over  the  other,  as  if  he 
were  really  washing  them.  "  Learn  how  to  speak;  and  don't 
come  and  take  a  gentleman  thus  by  surprise." 

"  But  listen — but  listen,"  vainly  repeated  Renzo.  The 
Doctor,  fuming  all  the  time,  pushed  him  towards  the  door, 


38 


MANZONI 


and,  on  reaching  it,  set  it  wide  open,  called  t!ie  servant,  and 
said,  *'  Be  quick,  and  give  this  man  what  he  brought.  I  want 
nothing,  I  want  nothing."  The  woman  had  never  before 
executed  a  similar  order  all  the  time  she  had  been  in  the  Doc- 
tor's service;  but  it  was  pronounced  in  so  resolute  a  man- 
ner, that  she  did  not  hesitate  to  obey.  So,  taking  the  four 
poor  birds,  she  gave  them  to  Renzo,  with  a  look  of  contemp- 
tuous compassion,  which  seemed  to  say,  ''  you  must  indeed 
have  made  a  grand  blunder."  Renzo  tried  to  be  ceremonious, 
but  the  Doctor  was  inexorable;  and  the  unhappy  wight,  as- 
tonished and  bewildered,  and  more  wrathful  than  ever,  was 
compelled  to  take  back  the  restored  victims,  and  return  to 
the  country  to  relate  the  pleasing  result  of  his  expedition  to 
Agnese  and  Lucia. 

Diiring  his  absence,  after  sorrowfully  changing  their  nup- 
tial robes  for  the  humble  daily  dress,  they  had  set  themselves 
to  consult  anew,  Lucia  sobbing,  Agnese  sighing  mournfully 
from  time  to  time.  When  Agnese  had  sufficiently  enlarged 
upon  the  great  effects  they  might  hope  for  from  the  Doctor's 
advice,  Lucia  remarked  that  they  ought  to  try  every  method 
likely  to  assist  them;  that  Father  Cristoforo  was  a  man  not 
only  to  advise,  but  also  to  render  more  effectual  assistance, 
where  it  concerned  the  poor  and  unfortunate;  and  that  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  if  they  could  let  him  know  what  had 
happened. 

"It  would,  indeed,"  replied  Agnese;  and  they  began  im- 
mediately to  contrive  together  some  plan  to  accomplish  it; 
since  to  go  themselves  to  the  convent,  distant,  perhaps,  two 
miles,  was  an  undertaking  they  would  rather  not  risk  that 
day;  and,  certainly,  no  one  with  any  judgment  would  have 
advised  them  to  do  so.  While,  however,  they  were  thus 
engaged  in  weighing  the  different  sides  of  the  question, 
they  heard  a  knock  at  the  door;  and  at  the  same  moment, 
a  low  but  distinct  Deo  Gratias.  Lucia,  wondering  who  it 
could  be,  ran  to  open  it,  and  immediately,  making  a  lov*^ 
bow,  there  entered  a  lay  Capuchin  collector,  his  bag  hang- 
ing over  his  left  shoulder,  and  the  mouth  of  it  twisted  and 
held  tight  in  his  two  hands,  over  his  breast.  "  Oh,  broth- 
er Galdino! "  exclaimed  the  two  women.  "The  Lord 
be  with  you,"  said  the  friar;  "  I  have  come  to  beg  for  the 
nuts." 

-  "  Go  and  fetch  the  nuts  for  the  Fathers,"  said  Agnese. 
Lucia  arose,  and  moved  toward  the  other  room;  but,  be- 
fore entering  it,  she  paused  behind  the  friar's  back,  who  re- 
mained standing  in  exactly  the  same  position;  and  putting 


THE   BETROTHED 


39 


her  forefinger  on  her  lips,  gave  her  mother  a  look  demanding 
secrecy,  in  which  were  mingled  tenderness,  supplication,  and 
even  a  certain  air  of  authority. 

The  collector,  inquisitively  eyeing  Agnese  at  a  distance, 
said,  "  And  this  wedding?  I  thought  it  was  to  have  been  to- 
day; but  I  noticed  a  stir  in  the  neighbourhood,  as  if  indicat- 
ing something  new.     What  has  happened?" 

"  The  Signor  Curate  is  ill,  and  we  are  obliged  to  post- 
pone it,"  hastily  replied  Agnese.  Probably  the  answer  might 
have  been  very  different,  if  Lucia  had  not  given  her  the  hint. 
**  And  how  does  the  collection  go  on?  "  added  she,  wishing  to 
change  the  conversation. 

''  Badly,  good  woman,  badly.  They  are  all  here."  And 
so  saying,  he  took  the  wallet  off  his  shoulders  and  tossed  it  up 
between  his  hands  into  the  air.  ''They  are  all  here;  and  to 
collect  this  mighty  abundance,  I  have  had  to  knock  at  ten 
doors." 

"  But  the  year  is  scarce,  brother  Galdino;  and  when  one 
has  to  struggle  for  bread,  one  measures  everything  according 
to  the  scarcity." 

"  And  what  must  we  do,  good  woman,  to  make  better 
times  return?  Give  alms.  Don't  you  know  the  miracle  of 
the  nuts  that  happened  many  years  ago  in  our  Convent  of 
Romagna?  " 

"No,  indeed!  tell  me." 

"  Well,  you  must  know,  then,  that  in  our  convent,  there 
was  a  holy  Father,  whose  name  was  Father  Macario.  One 
day,  in  winter,  walking  along  a  narrow  path,  in  a  field  belong- 
ing to  one  of  our  benefactors — a  good  man  also — Father  Ma- 
cario saw  him  standing  near  a  large  walnut-tree,  and  four 
peasants,  with  axes  upraised,  about  to  fell  it,  having  laid  bare 
its  roots  to  the  sun.  *  What  are  you  doing  to  this  poor 
tree?'  asked  Father  Macario.  'Why,  Father,  it  has  borne 
no  fruit  for  many  years,  so  now  I  will  make  firing  of  it.' 
*  Leave  it,  leave  it,'  said  the  Father;  *  be  assured  this  year 
it  will  produce  more  fruit  than  leaves.'  The  benefactor, 
knowing  who  it  was  that  had  uttered  these  words,  immediately 
ordered  the  workmen  to  throw  the  soil  upon  the  roots  again; 
and  calling  to  the  Father,  who  continued  his  walk,  said,  '  Fa- 
ther Macario,  half  of  the  crop  shall  be  for  the  convent.'  The 
report  of  the  prophecy  spread,  and  every  one  flocked  to  see 
the  tree.  Spring,  in  very  truth,  brought  blossoms  without 
number,  and  then  followed  nuts — nuts  without  number. 
The  good  benefactor  had  not  the  happiness  of  gathering  them, 
for  he  went  before  the  harvest  to  receive  the  reward  of  his 


40  MANZONI 

charity.  But  the  miracle  was,  in  consequence,  so  much  the 
greater,  as  you  will  hear.  This  worthy  man  left  behind  him  a 
son  of  very  different  character.  Well,  then,  at  the  time  of 
gathering,  the  collector  went  to  receive  the  moiety  belonging 
to  the  convent;  but  the  son  pretended  perfect  ignorance  of 
the  matter,  and  had  the  temerity  to  reply,  that  he  had  never 
heard  that  Capuchins  knew  how  to  gather  nuts.  What  do 
you  think  happened  then?  One  day  (listen  to  this),  the 
knave  was  entertaining  a  party  of  his  friends,  of  the  same 
genus  as  himself,  and  while  making  merry,  he  related  the 
story  of  the  walnuts,  and  ridiculed  the  friars.  His  jovial 
friends  wished  to  go  see  this  wonderful  heap  of  nuts,  and  he 
conducted  them  to  the  storehouse.  But  listen  now;  he  opened 
the  door,  went  toward  the  corner  where  the  great  heap  had 
been  laid,  and  while  saying,  '  Look,'  he  looked  himself,  and 
saw — what  do  you  think? — a  magnificent  heap  of  withered 
walnut-leaves!  This  was  a  lesson  for  him;  and  the  convent, 
instead  of  being  a  loser  by  the  denied  alms,  gained  thereby; 
for,  after  so  great  a  miracle,  the  contribution  of  nuts  increased 
to  such  a  degree,  that  a  benefactor,  moved  with  pity  for  the 
poor  collector,  made  a  present  to  the  convent  of  an  ass  to  as- 
sist in  carrying  the  nuts  home.  And  so  much  oil  was  made, 
that  all  the  poor  in  the  neighbourhood  came  and  had  as  much 
as  they  required ;  for  we  are  like  the  sea,  which  receives  water 
from  all  quarters,  and  returns  it  to  be  again  distributed 
through  the  rivers." 

At  this  moment  Lucia  returned,  her  apron  so  laden  with 
nuts,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  could  manage  it,  holding 
the  two  corners  stretched  out  at  arm's  length,  while  the  friar 
Galdino  lifted  the  sack  off  his  shoulders,  and  putting  it  on 
the  ground,  opened  the  mouth  for  the  reception  of  the  abun- 
dant gift.  Agnese  glanced  toward  Lucia  a  surprised  and  re- 
proachful look  for  her  prodigality;  but  Lucia  returned  a 
glance  which  seemed  to  say,  ''  I  will  justify  myself."  The 
friar  broke  forth  into  praises,  prognostications,  promises,  and 
expressions  of  gratitude,  and  replacing  his  bag,  was  about  to 
depart.  But  Lucia,  recalling  him,  said,  "  I  want  you  to  do 
me  a  kindness;  I  want  you  to  tell  Father  Cristoforo  that  we 
earnestly  wish  to  speak  to  him,  and  ask  him  to  be  so  good  as 
to  come  to  us  poor  people  quickly — directly;  for  I  can  not  go 
to  the  church." 

"  Is  this  all?  It  shall  not  be  an  hour  before  Father  Cris- 
toforo knows  your  wish." 

"  I  believe  you." 

"  You  need  not  fear."     And  so  saying,  he  departed,  rather 


THE    BETROTHED 


41 


more  burdened  and  a  little  better  satisfied  than  when  he 
entered  the  house.  - — ""' 

Let  no  one  think,  on  hearing  that  a  poor  girl  sent  to  ask 
with  such  confidence  for  Father  Cristoforo,  and  that  the  col- 
lector accepted  the  commission  w^ithout  wonder  and  without 
difficulty — let  no  one,  I  say,  suppose  that  this  Cristoforo  was 
a  mean  friar — a  person  of  no  importance.  He  was,  on  the 
contrary,  a  man  who  had  great  authority  among  his  friends, 
and  in  the  country  around;  but,  such  was  the  condition  of  the 
Capuchins,  that  nothing  appeared  to  them  either  too  high 
or  too  low.  To  minister  to  the  basest,  and  to  be  ministered 
to  by  the  most  powerful;  to  enter  palaces  or  hovels  with  the 
same  deportment  of  humility  and  security;  to  be  sometimes  in 
the  same  house  the  object  of  ridicule  and  a  person  without 
whom  nothing  could  be  decided;  to  solicit  alms  everywhere, 
and  distribute  them  to  all  those  who  begged  at  the  convent: — 
a  Capuchin  was  accustomed  to  all  these  things.  Traversing 
the  road,  he  was  equally  liable  to  meet  a  noble  who  would 
reverently  kiss  the  end  of  the  rope  round  his  waist,  or  a  crowd 
of  wicked  boys,  who,  pretending  to  be  quarrelling  among 
themselves,  would  fling  at  his  beard  dirt  and  mire.  The  word 
frate  was  pronounced  in  those  days  with  the  greatest  respect, 
and  again  with  the  bitterest  contempt;  and  the  Capuchins, 
perhaps,  more  than  any  other  order,  were  the  objects  of 
two  directly  opposite  sentiments,  and  shared  two  directly 
opposite  kinds  of  treatment;  because,  possessing  no  property, 
wearing  a  more  than  ordinarily  distinctive  habit,  and  making 
more  open  professions  of  humiliation,  they  exposed  them- 
selves more  directly  to  the  veneration,  or  the  contumely, 
which  these  circumstances  would  excite,  according  to  the 
different  tempers  and  different  opinions  of  men. 

As  soon  as  the  friar  had  left — *' All  those  nuts!"  ex- 
claimed Agnese:  "  and  in  such  a  year  too!  " 

**  I  beg  pardon,  mother,"  replied  Lucia;  "but  if  we  had 
only  given  like  others,  brother  Galdino  would  have  had  to  go 
about  no  one  knows  how  long,  before  his  wallet  would  have 
been  filled;  and  we  can  not  tell  when  he  would  have  returned 
to  the  convent;  besides,  w^hat  with  chatting  here  and  there, 
he  v/ould  very  likely  have  forgotten." 

"Ah!  you  thought  wisely;  and,  after  all,  charity  always 
brings  a  good  reward,"  said  Agnese,  who,  spite  of  her  little 
defects,  was  a  good  woman,  and  w^ould  have  given  everything 
she  owned  for  this  only  daughter,  whom  she  loved  with  the  ten- 
derest  affection. 

At  this  moment   Renzo  arrived,   and,   entering  with   an 


42 


MANZONI 


irritated  and  mortified  countenance,  threw  the  chickens  on 
the  table;  and  this  was  the  last  sad  vicissitude  the  poor  crea- 
tures underwent  that  day. 

''  Fine  advice  you  gave  me!  "  said  he  to  Agnese.  "  You 
sent  me  to  a  nice  gentleman,  to  one  who  really  helps  the  un- 
fortunate!" And  he  began  immediately  to  relate  his  recep- 
tion at  the  Doctor's.  Poor  Agnese,  astonished  at  his  ill  suc- 
cess, endeavoured  to  prove  that  her  advice  had  been  good, 
and  that  Renzo  had  not  gone  about  the  business  cleverly; 
but  Lucia  interrupted  the  question,  by  announcing  that  she 
hoped  they  had  found  a  better  helper.  Renzo  welcomed  the 
hope  as  most  people  do  who  are  in  misfortune  and  perplexity. 
'*  But  if  the  Father,"  said  he,  **  does  not  find  us  a  remedy, 
I  will  find  one  somehow  or  other."  The  women  recommend- 
ed peace,  patience,  and  prudence.  "  To-morrow,"  said  Lucia, 
"  Father  Cristoforo  will  certainly  come,  and  you'll  see  he  will 
find  some  help  that  we  poor  people  can't  even  imagine." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Renzo;  *' but  in  any  case  I  will  get  re- 
dress, or  find  some  one  to  get  it  for  me.  There  must  be  jus- 
tice in  the  end,  even  in  this  world!  " 

In  such  melancholy  discourse,  and  in  such  occurrences 
as  have  been  described,  the  day  wore  away,  and  began  to  de- 
cline. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Lucia,  sorrowfully,  to  Renzo,  who 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  her.  "  Good  night,"  re- 
plied he,  still  more  mournfully. 

''  Some  saint  will  help  us,"  added  she.  "  Be  prudent,  and 
try  to  be  resigned."  Agnese  added  other  advice  of  the  same 
kind,  and  the  bridegroom  went  away  with  fury  in  his  heart, 
repeating  all  the  while  those  strange  words,  "  There  must  be 
justice  at  last,  even  in  this  world!  "  So  true  is  it  that  a  man 
overwhelmed  with  great  sorrows  knows  not  what  he  is  saying. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  sun  had  scarcely  risen  above  the  horizon,  when 
Father  Cristoforo  left  the  convent  of  Pescarenico,  and 
proceeded  toward  the  cottage  where  he  was  expected. 
Pescarenico  is  a  little  town  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Adda, 
or  rather,  we  should  say,  of  the  lake,  a  few  paces  below  the 
bridge;  a  group  of  houses,  inhabited  for  the  most  part  by 
fishermen,  and  adorned  here  and  there  with  nets  hung  out  to 
dry.  The  convent  was  situated  (and  the  building  still  re- 
mains) outside  the  town,  facing  the  entrance,  on  the  road  that 
leads  from  Lecco  to  Bergamo.  The  sky  was  serene,  and  as 
the  sun  gradually  emerged  from  behind  the  mountain,  the 
light  descended  from  the  summit  of  the  opposite  range, 
spreading  itself  rapidly  over  the  steeps  and  through  the  val- 
leys; while  a  soft  autumnal  breeze,  shaking  from  the  boughs 
the  withered  leaves  of  the  mulberry,  carried  them  away  to  fall 
at  some  distance  from  the  trees.  In  the  vineyards  on  either 
hand,  the  red  leaves  of  various  shades  glittered  on  the  still 
festooned  branches;  and  the  newly-made  nets  appeared  dark 
and  distinct  among  the  fields  of  white  stubble  sparkling  in  the 
dew.  The  scene  was  bright;  but  the  occasional  sight  of  a 
human  figure  moving  therein  dispelled  the  cheerful  thoughts 
which  the  scene  was  calculated  to  inspire.  At  every  step  one 
met  with  pale  and  emaciated  beggars,  either  grown  old  in  the 
business,  or  reduced  by  the  necessity  of  the  times  to  ask  alms. 
They  looked  piteously  at  Father  Cristoforo  as  they  silently 
passed  him;  and  although,  as  a  Capuchin  never  had  any 
money,  they  had  nothing  to  hope  from  him,  yet  they  gave  him 
a  bow  of  gratitude  for  the  alms  which  they  had  received,  or 
were  going  to  solicit,  at  the  convent.  The  sight  of  the  la- 
bourers scattered  over  the  fields  had  in  it  something  still  more 
mournful.  Some  were  sowing  seed,  but  niggardly  and  unwill- 
ingly, like  a  man  who  risks  something  he  highly  prizes:  oth- 
ers could  with  difficulty  use  the  spade,  and  wearily  overturned 
the  sods.  The  half-starved  child,  holding  by  a  cord  the  thin 
meagre  cow,  and  looking  narrowly  around,  hastily  stooped 

43 


44 


MANZONI 


to  steal  from  it  some  herb  as  food  for  the  family,  which  hun- 
ger had  taught  them  could  be  used  to  sustain  life.  Such 
sights  as  these  at  every  step  increased  the  sadness  of  the  friar, 
who  even  now  had  a  presentiment  in  his  heart  that  he  was 
going  to  hear  of  some  misfortune. 

But  why  did  he  take  so  much  thought  for  Lucia?  And 
why  at  the  first  intimation  of  her  wish  did  he  attend  to  it  so 
diligently,  as  if  it  were  a  call  from  the  Father  Provincial? 
And  who  was  this  Father  Cristoforo? — It  will  be  necessary 
to  answer  all  these  inquiries. 

Father  Cristoforo  of  ^  *  '*'  *  was  a  man  nearer  sixty  than 
fifty  years  of  age.  His  shaven  head,  circled  with  a  narrow 
line  of  hair,  like  a  crown,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the 
Capuchin  tonsure,  was  raised  from  time  to  time  with  a  move- 
ment that  betrayed  somewhat  of  disdain  and  disquietude,  and 
then  quickly  sank  again  in  thoughts  of  lowliness  and  humility. 
His  long,  grey  beard,  covering  his  cheeks  and  chin,  con- 
trasted markedly  with  the  prominent  features  of  the  upper 
part  of  his  face,  to  which  a  long  and  habitual  abstinence  had 
rather  given  an  air  of  gravity,  than  effaced  the  natural  expres- 
sion. His  sunken  eyes,  usually  bent  on  the  ground,  some- 
times brightened  up  with  a  momentary  fire,  like  two  spirited 
horses  under  the  hand  of  a  driver  whom  they  know  by  ex- 
perience they  can  not  overcome;  yet  occasionally  they  in- 
dulge in  a  few  gambols  and  prancings,  for  which  they  are 
quickly  repaid  by  a  smart  jerk  of  the  bit. 

Father  Cristoforo  had  not  always  been  thus:  nor  had  he 
always  been  Cristoforo;  his  baptismal  name  w^as  Ludovico. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  merchant  of  *  "^  *  *  (these  asterisks  are 
all  inserted  by  the  circumspection  of  our  anonymous  author), 
who,  in  his  latter  years,  being  considerably  wealthy,  and  hav- 
ing only  one  son,  had  given  up  trade,  and  retired  as  an  inde- 
pendent gentleman. 

In  his  new  state  of  idleness  he  began  to  entertain  a  great 
contempt  for  the  time  he  had  spent  in  making  money,  and 
being  useful  in  the  world.  Full  of  this  fancy,  he  used  every 
endeavour  to  make  others  forget  that  he  had  been  a  mer- 
chant; in  fact,  he  wished  to  forget  it  himself.  But  the  ware- 
house, the  bales,  the  journal,  the  measure,  were  for  ever  in- 
truding upon  his  mind,  like  the  shade  of  Banquo  to  Mac- 
beth, even  amidst  the  honours  of  the  table  and  the  smiles 
of  flatterers.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  care  of  these 
poor  mortals  to  avoid  every  word  that  might  appear  like  an 
illusion  to  the  former  condition  of  their  patron.  One  day,  to 
mention  a  single  instance,  tov/ard  the  end  of  dinner,  in  the 


LAKE   CO  MO. 
Photogravure  from  an  engraving  after  a  painting  by  Clarkson  Stanfield 


to  steal  f  which  hun- 

er  ]\    '  life.     Such 


t> 


siaht^  of  the  friar, 


'fc> 


who  •  hat  h 


r-.     And 

whv  at  tl  end  to  it  so 

-  o 


tnan 

i,    '.  uci'^Li    vviiii    a    jLcirrow 

ig  to  the  fashion  of  the 
ed  from  time  to  time  with  a  move- 

'-'       '    '■    '   ivi  and  c''  ■  -    '  ■  ■  ■''         >d 
>wline 
covering   his  cheeks  and  chin,   con 

s  of  the 

— '- ;o«  ■ 

1 ) res- 
ts iiailv  .tme- 
a  momw...,     ......  .  ,-.    .  «>.  .i>irited 

a  driver  whom  they  know  by  ex- 
ercome;  yet  occasionally  they  in- 
•   '     *ancing"s,  for  which  they  are 
the  bit. 
;  always  been  thus:  nor  had  he 
tismal  name  wa:    '      '        o. 
*  *  *  *  (these  - 
5  of  our  anonym 
"  lerably  w<    ' 

n  to  enter taiii  a  great 
]  making  money,  and 
fnncy,  he  used  every 
had  been  a  met 

^  ^  the  Avare- 
?vcr  in- 


e  an 

o 

e 


THE   BETROTHED 


45 


moment  of  liveliest  and  most  unrestrained  festivity,  when  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say  which  was  merriest,  the  company 
who  emptied  the  table,  or  the  host  who  filled  it,  he  was  rally- 
ing with  friendly  superiority  one  of  his  guests,  the  most  pro- 
digious eater  in  the  world.  He,  meaning  to  return  the  joke, 
with  the  frankness  of  a  child,  and  without  the  least  shade  of 
malice,  replied,  '*  Ah,  I'm  listening  like  a  merchant."  The 
poor  offender  was  at  once  conscious  of  the  unfortunate  word 
that  had  escaped  his  lips;  he  cast  a  diffident  glance  toward 
his  patron's  clouded  face,  and  each  would  gladly  have  re- 
sumed his  former  expression;  but  it  was  impossible.  The 
other  guests  occupied  themselves,  each  in  his  own  mind,  in 
devising  some  plan  of  remedying  the  mistake,  and  making  a 
diversion;  but  the  silence  thus  occasioned  only  made  the 
error  more  apparent.  Each  individual  endeavoured  to  avoid 
meeting  his  companion's  eye;  each  felt  that  all  were  occupied 
in  the  thought  they  wished  to  conceal.  Cheerfulness  and  so- 
ciability had  fled  for  that  day,  and  the  poor  man,  not  so  much 
imprudent  as  unfortunate,  never  again  received  an  invitation. 
In  this  manner,  Ludovico's  father  passed  his  latter  years,  con- 
tinually subject  to  annoyances,  and  perpetually  in  dread  of 
being  despised;  never  reflecting  that  it  was  no  more  con- 
temptuous to  sell  than  to  buy,  and  that  the  business  of  which 
he  was  now  so  much  ashamed  had  been  carried  on  for  m.any 
years  before  the  public  without  regret.  He  gave  his  son  an  ex- 
pensive education,  according  to  the  judgment  of  the  times, 
and  as  far  as  he  was  permitted  by  the  laws  and  customs  of 
the  country:  he  procured  him  masters  in  the  different 
branches  of  literature  and  in  exercises  of  horsemanship,  and 
at  last  died,  leaving  the  youth  heir  to  a  large  fortune.  Ludo- 
vico  had  acquired  gentlemanly  habits  and  feelings,  and  the 
flatterers  by  wdiom  he  had  been  surrounded  had  accustomed 
him  to  be  treated  with  the  greatest  respect.  But  when  he  en- 
deavoured to  mix  with  the  first  men  of  the  city,  he  met  with 
very  different  treatment  to  what  he  had  been  accustomed  to, 
and'  he  began  to  perceive  that,  if  he  would  be  admitted  into 
their  society,  as  he  desired,  he  must  learn,  in  a  new  school,  to 
be  patient  and  submissive,  and  every  moment  to  be  looked 
down  upon  and  despised. 

Such  a  mode  of  life  accorded  neither  with  the  education 
of  Ludovico,  nor  with  his  disposition,  and  he  withdrew  from 
it,  highly  piqued.  Still  he  absented  himself  unwillingly;  it 
appeared  to  him  that  these  ought  really  to  have  been  his  com- 
panions, only  he  wanted  them  to  be  a  little  more  tractable. 
With  this  mixture  of  dislike  and  inclination,  not  being  able 


46 


MANZONI 


to  make  them  his  familiar  associates,  yet  wishing  in  some  way 
to  be  connected  with  them,  he  endeavoured  to  rival  them  in 
show  and  magnificence,  thus  purchasing  for  himself  enmity, 
jealousy,  and  ridicule.  His  disposition,  open  and  at  the  same 
time  violent,  had  occasionally  engaged  him  in  more  serious 
contentions.  He  had  a  natural  and  sincere  horror  of  fraud 
and  oppression — a  horror  rendered  still  more  vivid  by  the 
rank  of  those  whom  he  saw  daily  committing  them — exactly 
the  persons  he  hated.  To  appease,  or  to  excite  all  these  pas- 
sions at  once,  he  readily  took  the  part  of  the  weak  and  op- 
pressed, assumed  the  office  of  arbitrator,  and  intermeddling  in 
one  dispute,  drew  himself  into  others;  so  that  by  degrees  he 
established  his  character  as  a  protector  of  the  oppressed,  and 
a  vindicator  of  injuries.  The  employment,  however,  was 
troublesome;  and  it  need  not  be  asked  whether  poor  Ludo- 
vico  met  with  enemies,  untoward  accidents,  and  vexations  of 
spirit.  Besides  the  external  war  he  had  to  maintain,  he  was 
continually  harassed  by  internal  strifes;  for,  in  order  to  carry 
out  his  undertakings  (not  to  speak  of  such  as  never  were 
carried  out),  he  was  often  obliged  to  make  use  of  subterfuges, 
and  have  recourse  to  violence  which  his  conscience  could  not 
approve.  He  was  compelled  to  keep  around  him  a  great 
number  of  bravoes;  and,  as  much  for  his  own  security  as  to 
ensure  vigorous  assistance,  he  had  to  choose  the  most  daring, 
or,  in  other  words,  the  most  unprincipled,  and  thus  to  live 
with  villains  for  the  sake  of  justice.  Yet  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  either  discouraged  by  ill  success,  or  disquieted  by 
imminent  danger,  wearied  by  a  state  of  constant  defence,  dis- 
gusted with  his  companions,  and  in  apprehension  of  dissipat- 
ing his  property,  which  was  daily  drawn  upon  largely,  either 
in  a  good  cause  or  in  support  of  his  bold  enterprises — more 
than  once  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  turn  friar;  for  in  these 
times  this  was  the  commonest  way  of  escaping  difficulties. 
This  idea  would  probably  have  been  only  a  fancy  all  his  life, 
had  it  not  been  changed  to  a  resolution  by  a  more  serious 
and  terrible  accident  than  he  had  yet  met  wdth. 

He  was  walking  one  day  along  the  streets  in  company 
with  a  former  shopkeeper,  whom  his  father  had  raised  to  the 
office  of  steward,  and  was  followed  by  two  bravoes.  The 
steward,  whose  name  was  Cristoforo,  was  about  fifty  years 
old,  devoted  from  childhood  to  his  master,  whom  he  had 
known  from  his  birth,  and  by  whose  wages  and  liberality  he 
was  himself  supported,  with  his  wife  and  eight  children.  Lu- 
dovico  perceived  a  gentleman  at  a  distance,  an  arrogant  and 
overbearing  man,  to  whom  he  had  never  spoken  in  his  life, 


THE   BETROTHED  47 

but  his  cordial  enemy,  whom  Ludovico  heartily  hated;  for 
it  is  a  singular  advantage  in  this  world,  that  men  may  hate 
and  be  hated  without  knowing  each  other.  The  Signor, 
followed  by  four  bravoes,  advanced  haughtily  with  a  proud 
step,  his  head  raised,  and  his  mouth  expressive  of  insolence 
and  contempt.  They  both  walked  next  to  the  wall,  which 
(be  it  observed)  was  on  Ludovico's  right  hand;  and  this, 
according  to  custom,  gave  him  the  right  (how  far  people 
will  go  to  pursue  the  right  of  a  case!)  of  not  moving  from 
the  said  wall  to  give  place  to  any  one,  to  which  custom, 
at  that  time,  great  importance  was  attached.  The  Signor,  on 
the  contrary,  in  virtue  of  another  custom,  held  that  this  right 
ought  to  be  conceded  to  him  in  consideration  of  his  rank,  and 
that  it  was  Ludovico's  part  to  give  way.  So  that  in  this,  as 
it  happens  in  many  other  cases,  two  opposing  customs 
clashed,  the  question  of  which  was  to  have  the  preference  re- 
maining undecided,  thus  giving  occasions  of  dispute  when- 
ever one  hard  head  chanced  to  come  in  contact  with  another 
of  the  same  nature.  The  foes  approached  each  other,  both 
close  to  the  wall,  like  two  walking  figures  in  bas-relief,  and 
on  finding  themselves  face  to  face,  the  Signor,  eyeing  Ludo- 
vico with  a  haughty  air  and  imperious  frown,  said  in  a  cor- 
responding tone  of  voice,  "  Go  to  the  outside." 

"  You  go  yourself,"  replied  Ludovico,  "  the  path  is  mine." 

''  With  men  of  your  rank  the  path  is  always  mine." 

"  Yes,  if  the  arrogance  of  men  of  your  rank  were  a  law 
for  men  of  mine." 

The  two  trains  of  attendants  stood  still,  each  behind  its 
leader,  fiercely  regarding  each  other,  with  their  hands  on 
their  daggers  prepared  for  battle,  while  the  passers-by  stopped 
on  their  way  and  withdrew  into  the  road,  placing  themselves 
at  a  distance  to  observe  the  issue;  the  presence  of  these  spec- 
tators continually  animating  the  punctilio  of  the  disputants. 

"To  the  outside,  vile  mechanic!  or  I'll  quickly  teach  you 
the  civility  you  owe  a  gentleman." 

"You  lie:  I  am  not  vile." 

"  You  lie,  if  you  say  I  lie."  This  reply  was  pragmatical. 
"  And  if  you  were  a  gentleman,  as  I  am,"  added  the  Signor, 
"  I  v/ould  prove  with  the  sword  that  you  are  the  liar." 

"  That  is  a  capital  pretext  for  dispensing  with  the  trouble 
of  maintaining  the  insolence  of  your  words  by  your  deeds." 

"  Throw  this  rascal  in  the  mud,"  said  the  Signor,  turning 
to  his  followers. 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Ludovico,  immediately  retiring  a 
step,  and  laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 


48 


MANZONI 


"Rash  man!"  cried  the  other,  drawing  his  own,  "I  will 
break  this  when  it  is  stained  with  your  vile  blood." 

At  these  words  they  flew  upon  one  another,  the  attendants 
of  the  two  parties  fighting  in  defence  of  their  masters.  The 
combat  was  unequal,  both  in  number,  and  because  Ludovico 
aimed  rather  at  parrying  the  blows  of,  and  disarming,  his  ene- 
my than  killing  him,  while  the  Signor  was  resolved  upon  his 
foe's  death  at  any  cost.  Ludovico  already  received  a  blow 
from  the  dagger  of  one  of  the  bravoes  in  his  left  arm,  and  a 
slight  wound  on  his  cheek,  and  his  principal  enemy  was  press- 
ing on  to  make  an  end  of  him,  when  Cristoforo,  seeing  his  mas- 
ter in  extreme  peril,  went  behind  the  Signor  with  his  dagger, 
who,  turning  all  his  fury  upon  his  new  enemy,  ran  him  through 
with  his  sword.  At  this  sight  Ludovico,  as  if  beside  himself, 
buried  his  own  in  the  body  of  his  provoker,  and  laid  him  at 
his  feet,  almost  at  the  same  moment  as  the  unfortunate  Cristo- 
foro. The  followers  of  the  Signor,  seeing  him  on  the  ground, 
immediately  betook  themselves  to  flight:  those  of  Ludovico, 
wounded  and  beaten,  having  no  longer  any  one  to  fight  with, 
and  not  wishing  to  be  mingled  in  the  rapidly  increasing  multi- 
tude, fled  the  other  way,  and  Ludovico  was  left  alone  in  the 
midst  of  the  crowd  with  these  two  ill-fated  companions  lying 
at  his  feet. 

**  What's  the  matter? — There's  one. — There  are  two. — 
They  have  pierced  his  body. — Who  has  been  murdered? — 
That  tyrant. — Oh,  Holy  Mary,  what  a  confusion! — Seek,  and 
you  shall  find. — One  moment  pays  all. — So  he  is  gone ! — What 
a  blow ! — It  must  be  a  serious  affair. — And  this  other  poor  fel- 
low ! — Mercy !  what  a  sight ! — Save  him,  save  him ! — It  will  go 
hard  with  him  too. — See  how  he  is  mangled!  he  is  covered 
with  blood. — Escape,  poor  fellow,  escape! — Take  care  you  are 
not  caught." 

These  words  predominating  over  the  confused  tumult  of 
the  crowd,  expressed  their  prevailing  opinion,  while  assistance 
accompanied  the  advice.  The  scene  had  taken  place  near  a 
Capuchin  convent,  an  asylum,  in  those  days,  as  every  one 
knows,  impenetrable  to  bailiffs  and  all  that  complication  of 
persons  and  things  which  went  by  the  name  of  justice.  The 
wounded  and  almost  senseless  murderer  was  conducted  or 
rather  carried  by  the  crowd,  and  delivered  to  the  monks  with 
the  recommendation,  "  He  is  a  worthy  man  who  has  made  a 
proud  tyrant  cold;  he  was  provoked  to  it,  and  did  it  in  his 
own  defence." 

Ludovico  had  never  before  shed  blood,  and  although 
homicide  was  in  those  times  so  common  that  every  one  was 


THE    BETROTHED 


49 


accustomed  to  hear  of  and  witness  it,  yet  the  impression  made 
on  his  mind  by  the  sight  of  one  man  murdered  for  him,  and 
another  by  him,  was  new  and  indescribable — a  disclosure  of 
sentiments  before  unknown.  The  fall  of  his  enemy,  the  sud- 
den alteration  of  the  features,  passing  in  a  moment  from  a 
threatening  and  furious  expression  to  the  calm  and  solemn 
stillness  of  death,  was  a  sight  that  instantly  changed  the  feel- 
ings of  the  murderer.  He  was  dragged  to  the  convent  almost 
without  knowing  where  he  was,  or  what  they  were  doing  to 
him;  and  when  his  memory  returned,  he  found  himself  on  a 
bed  in  the  infirmary,  attended  by  a  surgeon-friar  (for  the 
Capuchins  generally  had  one  in  each  convent),  who  was  ap- 
plying lint  and  bandages  to  the  two  wounds  he  had  received 
in  the  contest.  A  father,  whose  special  office  it  was  to  attend 
upon  the  dying,  and  who  had  frequently  been  called  upon  to 
exercise  his  duties  in  the  street,  was  quickly  summoned  to  the 
place  of  combat.  He  returned  a  few  minutes  afterward,  and 
entering  the  infirmary,  approached  the  bed  where  Ludovico 
lay.  "  Comfort  yourself,"  said  he,  '*  he  has  at  least  died 
calmly,  and  has  charged  me  to  ask  your  pardon,  and  to  convey 
his  to  you."  These  words  aroused  poor  Ludovico,  and  awak- 
ened more  vividly  and  distinctly  the  feelings  which  confusedly 
crowded  upon  his  mind;  sorrow  for  his  friend,  consternation 
and  remorse  for  the  blow  that  had  escaped  his  hand,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  bitterly  painful  compassion  for  the  man  he 
had  slain.  "  And  the  other?  "  anxiously  demanded  he  of  the 
friar.  ^- 

**  The  other  had  expired  when  I  arrived." 

In  the  mean  while  the  gates  and  precincts  of  the  convent 
swarmed  with  idle  and  inquisitive  people;  but  on  the  arrival 
of  a  body  of  constables,  they  dispersed  the  crowd  and  placed 
themselves  in  ambush  at  a  short  distance  from  the  doors,  so 
that  none  might  go  out  unobserved.  A  brother  of  the  de- 
ceased, however,  accompanied  bv  two  of  his  cousins  and  an 
aged  uncle,  came,  armed  cap-a-pie,  with  a  povv^erful  retinue  of 
bravoes,  and  began  to  make  the  circuit  of  the  convent,  watch- 
ing with  looks  and  gestures  of  threatening  contempt  the  idle 
by-standers,  who  did  not  dare  say,  **  He  is  out  of  your  reach," 
though  they  had  it  written  on  their  faces. 

As  soon  as  Ludovico  could  collect  his  scattered  thoughts, 
he  asked  for  a  Father  Confessor,  and  begged  that  he  would 
seek  the  widow  of  Cristoforo,  ask  forgiveness  in  his  name  for 
his  having  been  the  involuntary  cause  of  her  desolation,  and 
at  the  same  time  assure  her  that  he  would  undertake  to  pro- 
vide for  her  desolate  fam.ily.  In  reflecting  on  his  own  condi- 
4 


50 


MANZONI 


tion,  the  wish  to  become  a  friar,  which  he  had  often  before 
revolved  in  his  mind,  revived  with  double  force  and  earnest- 
ness; it  seemed  as  if  God  himself,  by  bringing  him  to  a  con- 
vent just  at  this  juncture,  had  put  it  in  his  way,  and  given  him 
a  sign  of  His  will,  and  his  resolution  was  taken.  He  therefore 
called  the  guardian,  and  told  him  of  his  intention.  The  Su- 
perior replied  that  he  must  beware  of  forming  precipitate  reso- 
lutions, but  that  if  on  consideration  he  persisted  in  his  de- 
sire, he  would  not  be  refused.  He  then  sent  for  a  notary, 
and  made  an  assignment  of  the  whole  of  his  property  (which 
was  no  insignificant  amount)  to  the  family  of  Cristoforo,  a 
certain  sum  to  the  widow,  as  if  it  were  an  entailed  dowry,  and 
the  remainder  to  the  children. 

The  resolution  of  Ludovico  came  very  apropos  for  his 
hosts,  who  were  in  a  sad  dilemma  on  his  account.  To  send 
him  away  from  the  convent,  and  thus  expose  him  to  justice, 
that  is  to  say,  to  the  vengeance  of  his  enemies,  was  a  course 
on  which  they  would  not  for  a  moment  bestow  a  thought. 
It  would  have  been  to  give  up  their  proper  privileges,  dis- 
grace the  convent  in  the  eyes  of  the  people,  draw  upon  them- 
selves the  animadversion  of  all  the  Capuchins  in  the  universe 
for  suffering  their  common  rights  to  be  infringed  upon,  and 
arouse  all  the  ecclesiastical  authorities,  who  at  that  time  con- 
sidered themselves  the  lawful  guardians  of  these  rights.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  kindred  of  the  slain,  powerful  themselves, 
and  strong  in  adherents,  were  prepared  to  take  vengeance,  and 
denounced  as  their  enemy  any  one  who  should  put  an  ob- 
stacle in  their  way.  The  history  does  not  tell  us  that  much 
grief  was  felt  for  the  loss  of  the  deceased,  nor  even  that  a 
single  tear  was  shed  over  him  by  any  of  his  relations:  it  mere- 
ly says  that  they  were  all  on  fire  to  have  the  murderer,  dead  or 
living,  in  their  power.  But  Ludovico's  assuming  the  habit  of 
a  Capuchin  settled  all  these  difficulties;  he  made  atonement 
in  a  manner,  imposed  a  penance  on  himself,  tactily  confessed 
himself  in  fault,  and  withdrew  from  the  contest;  he  was,  in 
fact,  an  enemy  laying  down  his  arms.  The  relatives  of  the 
dead  could  also,  if  they  pleased,  believe  and  make  it  their 
boast  that  he  had  turned  friar  in  despair,  and  through  dread 
of  their  vengeance.  But  in  any  case,  to  oblige  a  man  to  re- 
linquish his  property,  shave  his  head,  and  walk  barefoot,  to 
sleep  on  straw,  and  to  live  upon  alms,  was  surely  a  punish- 
ment fully  equivalent  to  the  most  heinous  offence. 

The  Superior  presented  himself  with  an  easy  humility  to 
the  brother  of  the  deceased,  and  after  a  thousand  protesta- 
tions of  respect  for  his  most  illustrious  house,  and  of  desire 


THE   BETROTHED 


51 


to  comply  with  his  wishes  as  far  as  was  possible,  he  spoke  of 
Ludovico's  penitence,  and  the  determination  he  had  made, 
politely  making  it  appear  that  his  family  ought  to  be  there- 
with satisfied,  and  insinuating,  yet  more  courteously,  and  with 
still  greater  dexterity,  that  whether  he  were  pleased  or  not, 
so  it  would  be.  The  brother  fell  into  a  rage,  which  the  Capu- 
chin patiently  allowed  to  evaporate,  occasionally  remarking 
that  he  had  too  just  cause  of  sorrow.  The  Signor  also  gave 
him  to  understand  that  in  any  case  his  family  had  it  in  their 
power  to  enforce  satisfaction,  to  which  the  Capuchin,  what- 
ever he  might  think,  did  not  say  no;  and  finally  he  asked,  or 
rather  required  as  a  condition,  that  the  murderer  of  his  brother 
should  immediately  quit  the  city.  The  Capuchin,  who  had 
already  determined  upon  such  a  course,  replied  that  it  should 
be  as  he  wished,  leaving  the  nobleman  to  believe,  if  he  chose, 
that  his  compliance  was  an  act  of  obedience;  and  thus  the 
matter  concluded  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties.  The  family 
were  released  from  the  obligation;  the  friars  had  rescued  a 
fellow-creature,  and  secured  their  own  privileges,  without 
making  themselves  enemies;  the  dilettanti  in  chivalry  gladly 
saw  the  affair  terminated  in  so  laudable  a  manner;  and  the 
populace  rejoiced  at  a  worthy  man's  escaping  from  danger, 
and  at  the  same  time  marvelled  at  his  conversion;  finally,  and 
above  all,  in  the  midst  of  his  sorrow,  it  was  a  consolation  to 
poor  Ludovico  himself  to  enter  upon  a  life  of  expiation,  and 
devote  himself  to  services  which,  though  they  could  not  rem- 
edy might  at  least  make  some  atonement  for  his  unhappy 
deed,  and  alleviate  the  intolerable  pangs  of  remorse.  The 
idea  that  his  resolution  might  be  attributed  to  fear  pained 
him  for  a  moment,  but  he  quickly  consoled  himself  by  the 
remembrance  that  even  this  unjust  imputation  would  be  a 
punishment  for  him,  and  a  means  of  expiation.  Thus,  at  the 
age  of  thirty,  Ludovico  took  the  monastic  habit,  and  being 
required,  according  to  custom,  to  change  his  name,  he  chose 
one  that  would  continually  remind  him  of  the  fault  he  had  to 
atone  for — the  name  of  Friar  Cristoforo. 

Scarcely  was  the  ceremony  of  taking  the  religious  habit 
completed,  when  the  guardian  told  him  that  he  must  keep 
his  novitiate  at  ...  ,  sixty  miles  distant,  and  that  he  must 
leave  the  next  day.  The  novice  bowed  respectfully,  and  re- 
quested a  favour  of  him.  "  Allow  me.  Father,"  said  he,  "  be- 
fore I  quit  the  city  where  I  have  shed  the  blood  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  and  leave  a  family  justly  offended  with  me,  to  make 
what  satisfaction  I  can  by  at  least  confessing  my  sorrow,  beg- 
ging forgiveness  of  the  brother  of  the  deceased,  and  so  re- 


52 


MANZONI 


moving,  please  God,  the  enmity  he  feels  toward  me."  The 
guardian,  thinking  that  such  an  act,  besides  being  good  in  it- 
self, would  also  serve  still  more  to  reconcile  the  family  to  the 
convent,  instantly  repaired  to  the  offended  Signor's  house, 
and  communicated  to  him  Friar  Cristoforo's  request.  The 
Signor,  greatly  surprised  at  so  unexpected  a  proposal,  felt  a 
rising  of  anger,  mingled  perhaps  with  complacency,  and  after 
thinking  a  moment,  "  Let  him  come  to-morrow,"  said  he, 
mentioning  the  hour,  and  the  Superior  returned  to  the  mon- 
astery to  acquaint  the  novice  with  the  desired  permission. 

The  gentleman  soon  remembered  that  the  more  solemn 
and  notorious  the  submission  was,  the  more  his  influence  and 
importance  would  be  increased  among  his  friends  and  the 
public;  and  it  would  also  (to  use  a  fashionable  modern  ex- 
pression) make  a  fine  page  in  the  history  of  the  family.  He 
therefore  hastily  sent  to  inform  all  his  relatives,  that  the  next 
day  at  noon  they  must  hold  themselves  engaged  to  come  to 
him,  for  the  purpose  of  receiving  a  common  satisfaction.  At 
midday  the  palace  swarmed  with  the  nobility  of  both  sexes 
and  of  every  age;  occasioning  a  confused  intermingling  of 
large  cloaks,  lofty  plumes,  and  pendent  jewels;  a  vibrating 
movement  of  stiffened  and  curled  ribbons,  an  impeded  trail- 
ing of  embroidered  trains.  The  ante-rooms,  court-yards,  and 
roads  overflowed  with  servants,  pages,  bravoes,  and  inquisi- 
tive gazers.  On  seeing  all  this  preparation,  Friar  Cristoforo 
guessed  the  motive,  and  felt  a  momentary  perturbation;  but 
he  soon  recovered  himself,  and  said:  ''  Be  it  so;  I  committed 
the  murder  publicly,  in  the  presence  of  many  of  his  enemies; 
that  was  an  injury,  this  is  reparation." — So,  with  the  Father, 
his  companion,  at  his  side,  and  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground, 
he  passed  the  threshold,  traversed  the  court-yard  among  a 
crowd  who  eyed  him  with  very  unceremonious  curiosity,  as- 
cended the  stairs,  and  in  the  midst  of  another  crowd  of  nobles, 
who  gave  way  at  his  approach,  was  ushered,  with  a  thousand 
eyes  upon  him,  into  the  presence  of  the  master  of  the  man- 
sion, who,  surrounded  by  his  nearest  relatives,  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  room  with  a  downcast  look,  grasping  in  his  left 
hand  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  while  with  the  right  he  folded  the 
collar  of  his  cloak  over  his  breast. 

There  is  sometimes  in  the  face  and  behaviour  of  a  person 
so  direct  an  expression,  such  an  effusion,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
internal  soul,  that  in  a  crowd  of  spectators  there  will  be  but 
one  judgment  and  opinion  of  him.  So  it  was  with  Friar 
Cristoforo;  his  face  and  behaviour  plainly  expressed  to  the 
by-standers  that  he  had  not  become  a  friar,  nor  submitted  to 


THE   BETROTHED 


53 


that  humiliation,  from  the  fear  of  man;  and  the  discovery 
immediately  conciliated  all  hearts.  On  perceiving  the  offend- 
ed Signor,  he  quickened  his  steps,  fell  on  his  knees  at  his  feet, 
crossed  his  hands  on  his  breast,  and  bending  his  shaved  head, 
said :  *'  I  am  the  murderer  of  your  brother.  God  knows  how 
gladly  I  would  restore  him  to  you  at  the  price  of  my  own 
blood,  but  it  can  not  be:  I  can  only  make  inefficacious  and 
tardy  excuses,  and  implore  you  to  accept  them  for  God's  sake." 
All  eyes  were  immovably  fixed  upon  the  novice  and  the  illus- 
trious personage  he  was  addressing;  all  ears  were  attentively 
listening;  and  when  Friar  Cristoforo  ceased,  there  was  a 
murmur  of  compassion  and  respect  throughout  the  room. 
The  gentleman,  who  stood  in  an  attitude  of  forced  condescen- 
sion and  restrained  anger,  was  much  moved  at  these  words, 
and  bending  toward  the  supplicant,  "  Rise,"  said  he,  in  an 
altered  tone.  "  The  offence — the  act  certainly — but  the  habit 
you  bear — not  only  so,  but  also  yourself —  Rise,  Father —  My 
brother — I  can  not  deny  it — was  a  cavalier — was  rather  a — 
precipitate  man — rather  hasty.  But  all  happens  by  God's  ap- 
pointment. Speak  of  it  no  more  ....  But,  Father,  you  must 
not  remain  in  this  posture."  And  taking  him  by  the  arm, 
he  compelled  him  to  rise.  The  friar,  standing  with  his  head 
bowed,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  replied,  "  I  may 
hope  then  that  I  have  your  forgiveness?  And  if  I  obtain  it 
from  you,  from  whom  may  I  not  hope  it?  Oh!  if  I  might 
hear  from  your  lips  that  one  word — pardon !  " 

"Pardon!"  said  the  gentleman.  ''You  no  longer  need 
it.  But  since  you  desire  it,  certainly  ....  certainly,  I  par- 
don you  with  my  whole  heart,  and  all." 

''  All !  all !  "  exclaimed  the  by-standers,  with  one  voice. 
The  countenance  of  the  friar  expanded  with  grateful  joy, 
under  which,  however,  might  be  traced  an  humble  and  deep 
compunction  for  the  evil  which  the  forgiveness  of  men  could 
not  repair.  The  gentleman,  overcome  by  this  deportment, 
and  urged  forward  by  the  general  feeling,  threw  his  arms 
round  Cristoforo's  neck,  and  gave  and  received  the  kiss  of 
peace. 

"Bravo!  well  done!"  burst  forth  from  all  parts  of  the 
room :  there  was  a  general  movement,  and  all  gathered  round 
the  friar.  Servants  immediately  entered,  bringing  abundance 
of  refreshment.  The  Signor,  again  addressing  Cristoforo,  who 
was  reparing  to  retire,  said,  "  Father,  let  me  give  you  some  of 
these  trifles;  afford  me  this  proof  of  your  friendship;"  and 
was  on  the  point  of  helping  him  before  any  of  the  others:  but 
he,  drawing  back  with  a  kind  of  friendly  resistance,  "  These 


54 


MANZONI 


things,"  said  he,  *'  are  no  longer  for  me;  but  God  forbid  that 
I  should  refuse  yotir  gifts.  I  am  about  to  start  on  my  jour- 
ney; allow  me  to  take  a  loaf  of  bread,  that  I  may  be  able 
to  say  I  have  shared  your  charity,  eaten  of  your  bread,  and 
received  a  token  of  your  forgiveness."  The  nobleman,  much 
affected,  ordered  it  to  be  brought,  and  shortly  a  waiter  entered 
in  full  dress,  bearing  the  loaf  on  a  silver  dish,  and  presented 
it  to  the  Father,  who  took  it  with  many  thanks,  and  put  it  in  his 
basket.  Then,  obtaining  permission  to  depart,  he  bade  fare- 
well to  the  master  of  the  house  and  those  who  stood  nearest 
to  him,  and  with  difficulty  made  his  escape  as  they  endeav- 
oured for  a  moment  to  impede  his  progress;  while,  in  the 
ante-rooms,  he  had  to  struggle  to  free  himself  from  the  serv- 
ants, and  even  from  the  bravoes,  who  kissed  the  hem  of  his 
garment,  his  rope  and  his  hood.  At  last  he  reached  the  street, 
borne  along  as  in  triumph,  and  accompanied  by  a  crowd  of 
people  as  far  as  the  gate  of  the  city,  from  which  he  com- 
menced his  pedestrian  journey  toward  the  place  of  his  novi- 
tiate. 

The  brother  and  other  relatives  of  the  deceased,  who  had 
been  prepared  in  the  morning  to  enjoy  the  sad  triumph  of 
pride,  were  left  instead  full  of  the  serene  joy  of  a  forgiving 
and  benevolent  disposition.  The  company  entertained  them- 
selves some  time  longer,  with  feelings  of  unusual  kindness 
and  cordiality,  in  discussions  of  a  very  different  character  to 
what  they  had  anticipated  on  assembling.  Instead  of  satis- 
faction enforced,  insults  avenged,  and  obligations  discharged, 
praises  of  the  novice,  reconciliation  and  meekness,  were  the 
topics  of  conversation.  And  he  who,  for  the  fiftieth  time, 
would  have  recounted  how  Count  Muzio,  his  father,  had 
served  the  Marquis  Stanislao  (  a  violent,  boastful  man,  as  every 
one  is  aware)  in  a  well-known  encounter  of  the  same  kind, 
related,  instead,  the  penitence  and  wonderful  patience  of  one 
Friar  Simone,  who  had  died  many  years  before.  When  the 
party  had  dispersed,  the  Signor,  still  considerably  agitated,  re- 
considered with  surprise  what  he  had  heard  and  had  himself 
expressed,  and  muttered  between  his  teeth,  *'  The  devil  of  a 
friar!"  (we  must  record  his  exact  words),  ^' the  devil  of  a 
friar! — if  he  had  knelt  there  a  few  moments  longer,  I  should 
almost  have  begged  his  pardon  for  his  having  murdered  my 
brother." — Our  story  expressly  notes  that  from  that  day  for- 
ward he  became  a  little  less  impetuous,  and  rather  more  tract- 
able- 
Father  Cristoforo  pursued  his  way  with  a  peace  of  mind 
such  as  he  had  never  experienced  since  that  terrible  event,  to 


THE   BETROTHED  55 

make  atonement  for  which  his  whole  Hfe  was  henceforth  to 
be  consecrated.  He  maintained  the  silence  usually  imposed 
upon  novices  without  difficulty,  being  entirely  absorbed  in 
the  thought  of  the  labours,  privations,  and  humiliations  he 
would  have  to  undergo  for  the  expiation  of  his  fault.  At  the 
usual  hour  of  refreshment,  he  stopped  at  the  house  of  a  pa- 
tron, and  partook  almost  voraciously  of  the  bread  of  forgive- 
ness, reserving,  however,  a  small  piece,  which  he  kept  in  his 
basket  as  a  perpetual  remembrancer. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  write  the  history  of  his  cloistral 
life:  it  will  suffice  to  say,  that  while  he  willingly  and  carefully 
fulfilled  the  duties  customarily  assigned  to  him,  to  preach  and 
to  attend  upon  the  dying,  he  never  suffered  an  opportunity  to 
pass  of  executing  two  other  offices  which  he  had  imposed  upon 
himself — the  composing  of  differences,  and  the  protection  of 
the  oppressed.  Without  being  aware  of  it,  he  entered  upon 
these  undertakings  with  some  portion  of  his  former  zeal,  and 
a  slight  remnant  of  that  courageous  spirit  which  humiliation 
and  mortifications  had  not  been  able  entirely  to  subdue.  His 
manner  of  speaking  was  habitually  meek  and  humble;  but 
when  truth  and  justice  were  at  stake,  he  was  immediately  ani- 
mated with  his  former  warmth,  which,  mingled  with  and 
modified  by  a  solemn  emphasis  acquired  in  preaching,  im- 
parted to  his  language  a  very  marked  character.  His  whole 
countenance  and  deportment  indicated  a  long-continued 
struggle  between  a  naturally  hasty,  passionate  temper,  and 
an  opposing  and  habitually  victorious  will,  ever  on  the 
watch,  and  directed  by  the  highest  principles  and  motives. 
One  of  the  brotherhood,  his  friend,  who  knew  him  well,  lik- 
ened him,  on  one  occasion,  to  those  too-expressive  words — 
too  expressive,  that  is,  in  their  natural  state,  which  some  per- 
sons, well-behaved  enough  on  ordinary  occasions,  pronounce, 
when  overcome  by  anger,  in  a  half-and-half  sort  of  way,  with 
a  slight  change  of  letters — words  w^iich  even  thus  transformed 
bear  about  them  much  of  their  primitive  energy. 

If  one  unknown  to  him,  in  Lucia's  sad  condition,  had  im- 
plored the  aid  of  Father  Cristoforo,  he  would  immediately 
have  attended  to  the  request;  when  it  concerned  Lucia,  how- 
ever, he  hastened  to  her  with  double  solicitude,  since  he  knew 
and  admired  her  innocence.  He  had  already  trembled  for  her 
danger,  and  felt  a  lively  indignation  at  the  base  persecution 
of  which  she  was  the  object.  Besides  this,  he  feared  that  by 
advising  her  to  say  nothing  about  it,  and  keep  quiet,  he  might 
have  been  the  cause  of  some  sad  consequences:  so  that  in  this 
case  there  was  added  to  the  kind  solicitude,  which  was,  as  it 


56 


MANZONI 


were,  natural  to  him,  that  scrupulous  perplexity  which  often 
torments  the  innocent. 

But  while  we  have  been  relating  the  early  history  of  Fa- 
ther Cristoforo,  he  has  arrived  at  the  village,  and  reached  the 
door;  and  the  women,  leaving  the  harsh-toned  spinning- 
wheel  at  which  they  were  engaged,  have  risen  and  exclaimed 
with  one  voice,  *'  Oh,  Father  Cristoforo!  God  reward  you!  " 


V 


CHAPTER    V 

FATHER  CRISTOFORO  stopped  on  the  threshold, 
and  quickly  perceived,  by  a  glance  at  the  women,  that 
his  presentiments  had  not  been  unfounded.  While 
raising  his  beard,  by  a  slight  movement  of  the  head 
backward,  he  said,  in  that  interrogative  tone  which  anticipates 
a  mournful  reply,  ''Well?"  Lucia  answered  by  a  flood  of 
tears.  Her  mother  began  to  apologize  for  having  dared 
....  but  he  advanced  and  seated  himself  on  a  three-legged 
stool,  and  cut  short  all  her  excuses,  by  saying  to  Lucia, 
"  Calm  yourself,  my  poor  daughter.  And  you,"  continued 
he,  turning  to  Agnese,  "  tell  me  what  has  happened."  The 
good  woman  related  the  melancholy  story  as  well  as  she 
could,  while  the  friar  changed  colour  a  thousand  times,  at  one 
moment  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  the  next,  kicking  his 
heels  on  the  ground.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  recital,  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  blessed 
Lord!  how  long!  "  But,  v/ithout  finishing  the  sentence,  he 
turned  again  to  the  women.  "  Poor  things !  "  said  he,  "  God 
has  indeed  visited  you.     Poor  Lucia!" 

"  You  will  not  forsake  us.  Father?"  sobbed  Lucia. 

"Forsake  you!"  replied  he.  "Great  God!  with  v/hat 
face  could  I  again  make  request  to  Him,  if  I  should  forsake 
you?  You  in  this  state!  You  whom  Lie  confides  to  me! 
Don't  despair:  He  will  help  you.  He  sees  all:  He  can  make 
use  even  of  such  an  unworthy  instrument  as  I  am  to  confound 
a  .  .  .  .  Let  us  see :  let  me  think  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

So  saying,  he  leaned  his  left  elbow  on  his  knee,  laid  his 
forehead  on  his  hand,  and  with  the  right  grasped  his  beard 
and  chin,  as  if  to  concentrate  and  hold  fast  all  the  powers  of 
his  mind.  But  the  most  attentive  consideration  only  served 
to  show  more  distinctly  the  urgency  and  intricacy  of  the  case, 
and  how  few,  how  uncertain,  and  how  dangerous  were  the 
ways  of  meeting  it.  "  Instil  shame  into  Don  Abbondio,  and 
make  him  sensible  of  how  much  he  is  failing  in  his  duty? 
Shame  and  duty  are  nothing  to  him,  when  overwhelmed  with 
fear.     Inspire  him 'with  fears?     How  can  I  suggest  one  that 

57 


^p  /         MANZONI 

.^  the  dread  he  already  has  of  a  musket?  In- 
>v!ii  t;  :'  Cardinal-Archbishop  of  all,  and  invoke  his  author- 
■ity?  1  nis  requires  time,  and  in  the  mean  while  what  might 
not  happen?  And  afterward,  supposing  even  this  unhappy 
innocent  were  married,  would  that  be  a  curb  to  such  a  man? 
....  Who  knows  to  what  length  he  might  proceed?  And 
resist  him?  How?  Ah!  if  I  could,"  thought  the  poor  friar: 
"  if  I  could  but  engage  in  this  cause  my  brethren  here  and 
at  Milan!  But  it  is  not  a  common  affair,  and  I  should  be 
abandoned.  Don  Rodrigo  pretends  to  be  a  friend  to  the  con- 
vent, and  professes  himself  a  favourer  of  the  Capuchins;  and 
his  followers  have  more  than  once  taken  refuge  with  us.  I 
should  find  myself  alone  in  the  undertaking;  I  should  be  op- 
posed by  meddling,  quarrelsome  persons;  and,  what  is  worse, 
I  should,  perhaps,  by  an  ill-timed  endeavour,  only  render  the 
condition  of  this  poor  girl  more  hopeless."  Having  consid- 
ered every  view  of  the  question,  the  best  course  seemed  to 
be  to  confront  Don  Rodrigo  himself,  and  try,  by  entreaties, 
the  terrors  of  the  life  to  come,  and  even  of  this  world,  if  that 
were  possible,  to  dissuade  him  from  his  infamous  purpose. 
At  least,  he  could  by  this  means  ascertain  whether  he  con- 
tinued obstinately  bent  on  his  wicked  design,  discover  some- 
thing more  of  his  intentions,  and  act  accordingly.  While  the 
friar  was  thus  engaged,  Renzo,  who  for  reasons  that  every 
one  can  divine  could  not  long  absent  himself,  made  his  ap- 
pearance at  the  door;  but  seeing  the  Father  absorbed  in 
thought,  and  the  women  beckoning  to  him  not  to  interrupt 
him,  he  stood  silent  on  the  threshold.  Raising  his  head  to 
communicate  his  design  to  the  women,  the  friar  perceived 
Renzo,  and  saluted  him  with  his  usual  affection,  increased  and 
rendered  more  intense  by  compassion. 

"  Have  they  told  you  Father?  "  asked  Renzo,  in  an  agi- 
tated tone. 

''  Only  too  much:  and  for  that  reason  I  am  here." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  the  rascal?  " 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say  of  him?  He  is  far  away, 
and  my  words  would  be  of  no  use.  But  I  say  to  you,  my 
Renzo,  trust  in  God,  and  He  will  not  forsake  you." 

"  What  blessed  words!  "  exclaimed  the  youth.  "  You  are 
not  one  of  those  who  always  wrong  the  poor.  But  the  Si- 
gner Curate,  and  that  Signer  Doctor." 

"  Don't  recall  those  scenes,  Renzo,  which  only  serve  to 
irritate  you  uselessly.  I  am  a  poor  friar;  but  I  repeat  what 
I  have  said  to  these  poor  women:  poor  as  I  am,  I  will  not 
forsake  you." 


THE    BETROTHED 


59 


"Ah!  you  are  not  like  the  world's  friends!  Good-for- 
nothing  creatures  that  they  are!  You  would  not  believe  the 
protestations  they  made  me  in  prosperity.  Ha!  ha!  They 
were  ready  to  give  their  lives  for  me;  they  would  have  de- 
fended me  against  the  devil.  If  I  had  had  an  enemy,  I  had 
only  to  let  them  know  it,  and  I  should  have  been  quickly 
rid  of  him!  And  now,  if  you  were  to  see  how  they  draw 
back."  At  this  moment  Renzo  perceived,  on  raising  his  eyes 
to  those  of  his  auditor,  that  the  good  friar's  face  was  clouded, 
and  he  felt  that  he  had  uttered  something  wrong.  He  only 
added  to  his  perplexities,  however,  and  made  matters  worse, 
by  trying  to  remedy  them:  "  I  meant  to  say  ....  I  don't 
at  all  mean  ....  that  is,  I  meant  to  say  .  .  .  ." 

"  What  did  you  mean  to  say?  Have  you,  then,  begun 
to  spoil  my  work  before  I  have  undertaken  it?  It  is  well  for 
you  that  you  have  been  undeceived  in  time.  What!  you  went 
in  search  of  friends,  and  such  friends!  who  could  not  have 
helped  you,  had  they  been  willing;  and  you  forgot  to  seek 
the  only  One  who  can  and  will  assist  you!  Do  you  not  know 
that  God  is  the  friend  of  the  afflicted  who  put  their  trust  in 
Him?  Do  you  not  know  that  threatening  and  contention  gain 
nothing  for  the  weak?  And  even  if.  .  .  ."  Here  he  forcibly 
grasped  Renzo's  arm;  his  countenance,  without  losing  any 
of  its  authority,  expressed  a  solemn  contrition;  he  cast  his 
eyes  on  the  ground,  and  his  voice  became  slow  and  almost 
sepulchral:  "Even  if  they  did,  it  is  a  terrible  gain!  Renzo! 
will  you  trust  to  me?  To  me,  did  I  say — a  feeble  mortal,  a 
poor  friar?     No;  but  will  you  trust  in  God?  " 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  replied  Renzo;  "  He  is  in  truth  the  Lord." 

"  Very  well ;  promise  me  that  you  will  not  attack — that 
vou  will  not  provoke — any  one;  that  you  will  be  guided  by 
me." 

"  I  promise  you."  . 

Lucia  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  she  were  relieved 
from  a  great  weight;  and  Agnese  exclaimed,  "  Bravo,  my 
son!" 

"  Listen,  my  children,"  continued  Friar  Cristoforo;  "  I 
will  go  to-day  and  speak  to  this  man.  If  it  please  God  to 
touch  his  heart,  and  give  force  to  my  words,  well;  but,  if  not, 
He  will  show  us  some  other  remedy.  You,  in  the  mean  while, 
be  quiet  and  retired;  avoid  gossip,  and  don't  show  yourselves. 
To-night,  or  to-morrow  morning,  at  the  latest,  you  shall  see 
me  again."  So  saying,  he  cut  short  all  their  thanks  and  bene- 
dictions, and  departed.  He  returned  first  to  the  convent, 
where  he  arrived  in  time  to  join  in  the  chorus  in  chanting, 


5o  MANZONI 

•#• 
dined,  and  then  set  off  on  his  way  toward  the  den  of  the 
wild  beast  he  had  undertaken  to  tame. 

The  small  but  elegant  palace  of  Don  Rodrigo  stood  by  it- 
self, rising  like  a  castle  from  the  summit  of  one  of  the  abrupt 
cliffs  by  which  the  shore  of  the  lake  was  broken  and  diversi- 
fied. Our  anonymous  author  only  adds  to  this  indication, 
that  the  site  (it  would  have  been  better  to  give  the  name 
in  full)  was  rather  on  the  side  adjoining  the  country  of 
the  Betrothed,  about  three  miles  distant  from  them,  and  four 
from  the  convent.  At  the  base  of  the  cliff,  on  the  side  look- 
ing toward  the  lake,  lay  a  group  of  cottages,  inhabited  by 
the  peasantry  in  the  service  of  Don  Rodrigo,  the  diminutive 
capital  of  his  little  kingdom.  It  was  quite  sufificient  to  pass 
through  it  to  be  assured  of  the  character  and  customs  of  the 
country.  Casting  a  glance  into  the  lower  rooms,  should  a 
door  happen  to  be  open,  one  saw  hanging  on  the  wall,  fowl- 
ing-pieces, spades,  rakes,  straw  hats,  nets,  and  powder-flasks, 
in  admired  confusion.  Everywhere  might  be  seen  powerful 
fierce-looking  men,  wearing  a  large  lock,  turned  back  upon 
their  heads,  and  enclosed  in  a  net;  old  men,  who,  having  lost 
their  teeth,  appeared  ready,  at  the  slightest  provocation,  to 
show  their  gums;  women,  of  masculine  appearance,  with 
strong,  sinewy  arms,  prepared  to  come  in  to  the  aid  of  their 
tongues  on  every  occasion.  Even  the  very  children,  playing 
in  the  road,  displayed  in  their  countenances  and  behaviour  a 
certain  air  of  provocation  and  defiance. 

Father  Cristoforo  passed  through  this  hamlet,  and  as- 
cended a  winding  foot-path  to  a  small  level  plot  of  ground, 
in  front  of  the  palace.  The  door  was  shut — a  sign  that  the 
master  of  the  mansion  was  dining,  and  would  not  be  dis- 
turbed. The  few  small  windows  that  looked  into  the  road, 
the  frame-works  of  which  were  disjointed  and  decayed  with 
age,  were  defended  bv  large  iron  bars;  and  those  of  the 
ground-floor  were  so  high  that  a  man  could  scarcely  reach 
them  by  standing  on  the  shoulders  of  another.  Perfect  si- 
lence reigned  around;  and  a  passer-by  might  have  deemed  it 
a  deserted  mansion,  had  not  four  creatures,  two  animate,  and 
two  inanimate,  disposed  opposite  each  other,  outside,  given 
some  indication  of  inhabitants.  Two  great  vultures,  with  ex- 
tended wings  and  pendent  heads — one  stripped  of  its  feathers, 
and  half  consumed  by  time;  the  other  still  feathered,  and  in  a 
state  of  preservation — were  nailed,  one  on  each  post  of  the 
massive  door-way;  and  two  bravoes,  stretched  at  full  length 
on  the  benches  to  the  right  and  left,  were  on  guard,  and  ex- 
pecting their  call  to  partake  of  the  remains  of  the  Signer's 


THE   BETROTHED  6l 

table.  The  Father  stood  still,  in  the  attitude  of  one  who 
was  prepared  to  wait;  but  one  of  the  bravoes  rose,  and  called 
to  him:  *'  Father,  Father,  come  forward,  we  don't  make  Cap- 
uchins wait  here;  we  are  friends  of  the  convent;  and  I  have 
sometimes  been  within  it  when  the  air  outside  was  not  very 
good  for  me,  and  when,  if  the  door  had  been  closed  upon  me, 
I  should  have  fared  badly."  So  saying,  he  gave  two  strokes 
of  the  knocker,  which  were  answered  immediately  from  with- 
in, by  the  howling  and  yelling  of  mastiffs,  and  curs,  and  in  a 
few  moments  by  an  old  grumbling  servant;  but  seeing  the 
Father,  he  made  him  a  low  bow,  quieted  the  animals  with  hand 
and  voice,  introduced  the  visitor  into  a  narrow  passage,  and 
closed  the  door  again.  He  then  conducted  him  into  a  small 
apartment,  and,  regarding  him  with  a  surprised  and  respect- 
ful look,  said,  "  Are  you  not  Father  Cristoforo  of  Pesca- 
renico?  " 

"  I  am." 

"You  here?" 

"  As  you  see,  my  good  man." 

"  It  must  be  to  do  good,  then.  Good,"  continued  he,  mut- 
tering between  his  teeth,  as  he  still  led  the  way;  "  good  may 
be  done  anywhere." 

Having  passed  through  two  or  three  dark  apartments, 
they  at  last  reached  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  where  they 
were  greeted  with  a  loud  and  confused  noise  of  knives,  forks, 
glasses,  pewter  dishes,  and,  above  all,  of  discordant  voices 
alternately  endeavouring  to  take  the  lead  in  conversation. 
The  friar  wished  to  withdraw,  and  was  debating  at  the  door 
with  the  servant,  and  begging  permission  to  wait  in  some 
corner  of  the  house  till  dinner  was  over,  when  the  door 
opened.  A  certain  Count  Attilio,  who  was  sitting  opposite 
(he  was  a  cousin  of  Don  Rodrigo,  and  we  have  already  men- 
tioned him  without  giving  his  name),  seeing  a  shaved  head 
and  monk's  habit,  and  perceiving  the  modest  intentions  of  the 
good  friar,  exclaimed,  "Aha!  aha!  You  shan't  make  your 
escape,  reverend  Father;  forward,  forward!"  Don  Rodrigo, 
without  precisely  divining  the  object  of  this  visit,  had  a  sort 
of  presentiment  of  what  awaited  him,  and  would  have  been 
glad  to  avoid  it;  but  since  Attilio  had  thoughtlessly  given 
this  blunt  invitation,  he  was  obliged  to  second  it,  and  said, 
"  Come  in.  Father,  come  in."  The  friar  advanced,  making 
a  low  bow  to  the  host,  and  respectfully  responding  to  the  salu- 
tations of  the  guests. 

It  is  usual  (I  do  not  say  invariable)  to  represent  the  inno- 
cent in  the  presence  of  the  wicked  with  an  open  countenance, 


62  MANZONI 

an  air  of  security,  an  undaunted  heart,  and  a  ready  facility  of 
expression.  In  reality,  however,  many  circumstances  are  re- 
quired to  produce  this  behaviour,  which  are  rarely  met  with 
in  combination.  It  will  not,  therefore,  be  wondered  at,  that 
Friar  Cristoforo,  with  the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience, 
and  a  firm  persuasion  of  the  justice  of  the  cause  he  had  come 
to  advocate,  together  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  horror  and 
compassion  for  Don  Rodrigo,  stood,  nevertheless,  with  a  cer- 
tain air  of  timidity  and  submissiveness,  in  the  presence  of  this 
same  Don  Rodrigo,  who  was  seated  before  him  in  an  arm- 
chair, in  his  own  house,  on  his  own  estate,  surrounded  by  his 
friends,  and  many  indications  of  his  power,  with  every  homage 
paid  to  him,  and  with  an  expression  of  countenance  that 
would  at  once  prohibit  the  making  a  request,  much  more  the 
giving  advice,  correction,  or  reproof.  On  his  right  sat  Count 
Attilio,  his  cousin,  and,  it  is  needless  to  say,  his  companion  in 
libertinism  and  oppression,  who  had  come  from  Milan  to  spend 
a  few  days  with  him.  To  his  left,  and  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  was  seated,  with  a  profound  respect,  tempered,  how- 
ever, with  a  certain  air  of  security,  and  even  arrogance,  the 
Signor  Podesta;  the  person  whose  business  it  was,  profess- 
edly, to  administer  justice  to  Renzo  Tramaglino,  and  inflict 
upon  Don  Rodrigo  one  of  the  appointed  penalties.  Opposite 
the  Podesta,  in  an  attitude  of  the  purest,  most  unbounded  ser- 
vility, sat  our  Doctor,  Azzecca-garbugh,  with  his  black  cap, 
and  more  than  usually  red  nose;  and  facing  the  cousins  were 
two  obscure  guests,  of  whom  our  story  merely  records  that 
they  did  nothing  but  eat,  bow  their  heads,  and  smile  approval 
at  everything  uttered  by  a  fellow-guest,  provided  another  did 
not  contradict  it. 

''  Give  the  Father  a  seat,"  said  Don  Rodrigo.  A  servant 
presented  a  chair,  and  Father  Cristoforo  sat  down,  making 
some  excuse  to  the  Signor  for  coming  at  so  inopportune  an 
hour. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  with  you  alone,  on  a  matter  of  impor- 
tance," added  the  friar,  in  a  lower  voice,  in  Don  Rodrigo's  ear. 

''Very  well,  I  wnll  attend  you,"  repHed  he;  "but  in  the 
mean  while,  bring  the  Father  something  to  drink." 

The  Father  tried  to  excuse  himself;  but  Don  Rodrigo, 
raising  his  voice  above  the  recommencing  tumult,  cried, 
"  No,  no,  you  shall  not  do  me  this  wrong;  it  shall  never  be 
said  that  a  Capuchin  left  this  house  without  tasting  my  wine, 
nor  an  insolent  creditor  the  wood  of  my  forests."  These 
words  were  followed  by  a  general  laugh,  and,  for  a  moment, 
interrupted   the    question   that   was   being   warmly    agitated 


THE    BETROTHED 


&2, 


among  the  guests.  A  servant  then  brought  hi.  a  bottle  of 
wine,  on  a  tray,  and  a  tall  glass,  in  the  shape  of  a  chalice,  and 
presented  them  to  the  Father,  who,  unwilling  to  refuse  the 
pressing  invitation  of  one  he  so  much  wished  to  propitiate, 
did  not  hesitate  to  pour  some  out,  and  began  slowly  to  sip  the 
wine. 

"  The  authority  of  Tasso  will  not  serve  your  purpose, 
respected  Signor  Podesta;  it  even  militates  against  you,"  re- 
sumed Count  Attilio,  in  a  thundering  voice;  "  for  that  learned, 
that  great  man,  who  perfectly  understood  all  the  rules  of 
chivalry,  has  made  the  messenger  of  Argante  ask  leave  of 
the  pious  Buglione,  before  delivering  the  challenge  to  the 
Christian  knights." 

"  But  this,"  replied  the  Podesta,  vociferating  no  less  vehe- 
mently, "  this  is  a  liberty,  a  mere  liberty,  a  poetical  ornament; 
since  an  ambassador  is,  in  his  nature,  inviolable  by  the  law  of 
nations,  jure  gentium.  But,  without  seeking  so  far,  the  prov- 
erb says,  '  Ambasciator  non  porta  pena;'  and  proverbs,  you 
know,  contain  the  wisdom  of  the  human  race.  Besides,  the 
messenger  having  uttered  nothing  in  his  own  name,  but  only 
presented  the  challenge  in  writing  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  when  will  you  understand  that  this  messenger  was 
an  inconsiderate  ass,  who  didn't  know  the  first " 

"  With  your  leave,  gentlemen,"  interrupted  Don  Rodrigo, 
who  was  afraid  of  the  question  being  carried  too  far,  *'  we  will 
refer  it  to  Father  Cristoforo,  and  abide  by  his  sentence." 

''  Well — very  w^ell,"  said  Count  Attilio,  highly  pleased  at 
the  idea  of  referring  a  question  of  chivalry  to  a  Capuchin: 
while  the  more  eager  Podesta  with  difficulty  restrained  his  ex- 
cited feelings,  and  a  shrug  of  contempt,  which  seemed  to  say 
— Absurdity ! 

"  But  from  what  I  have  heard,"  said  the  Father,  "  these 
are  matters  I  know  nothing  of." 

''  As  usual,  the  modest  excuses  of  the  Fathers,"  said  Don 
Rodrigo;  **  but  you  shall  not  get  ofY  so  easily.  Come,  now, 
we  know  w^ell  enough  you  did  not  come  into  the  world  with 
a  cowl  on  your  head,  and  that  you  are  no  stranger  to  its  ways. 
See  here;  this  is  the  question  .  .  .  ." 

"  The  case  is  this,"  began  Count  Attilio. 

''  Let  me  tell  it,  who  am  neutral,  cousin,"  replied  Don 
Rodrigo.  "  This  is  the  story.  A  Spanish  cavalier  sent  a  chal- 
lenge to  a  Milanese  cavalier;  the  bearer,  not  finding  him  at 
home,  delivered  the  summons  to  his  brother,  who,  after  read- 
ing it,  gave  the  bearer  in  reply  a  good  thrashing.  The  dis- 
pute is  .  .  .  ." 


64 


MANZONI 


**  One  good  turn  deserves  another,"  cried  Count  Attilio. 
**  It  was  really  inspiration  .  .  .  ." 

"  Of  the  devil,"  added  Podesla.  "  To  beat  an  ambassador! 
— a  man  whose  person  is  sacred!  Even  you,  Father,  will  say 
whether  this  was  a  knightly  deed." 

"  Yes,  Signor,  knightly,"  cried  the  Count,  "  and  you  will 
allow  me  to  say  so,  who  ought  to  understand  what  relates  to  a 
cavalier.  Oh,  if  they  had  been  blows,  it  would  be  another  mat- 
ter; but  a  cudgel  defiles  nobody's  hands.  What  puzzles  me  is, 
why  you  think  so  much  of  the  shoulders  of  a  mean  scoundrel." 

'*  Who  said  anything  about  his  shoulders,  Signor  Count? 
You  would  make  out  I  had  talked  nonsense  such  as  never 
entered  my  mind.  I  spoke  of  his  office,  not  of  his  shoulders; 
and  am  now  considering  the  laws  of  chivalry.  Be  so  good  as 
to  tell  me  whether  the  heralds  that  the  ancient  Romans  sent 
to  bid  defiance  to  other  nations  asked  leave  to  announce  their 
message;  and  find  me  one  writer  who  mentions  that  a  herald 
was  ever  beaten." 

"  What  have  the  officers  of  the  ancient  Romans  to  do  with 
us — a  simple  nation,  and  in  these  things  far,  far  behind  us? 
But,  according  to  the  laws  of  modern  chivalry,  which  are 
the  only  right  ones,  I  afnrm  and  maintain  that  a  messenger 
who  dared  to  place  a  challenge  in  the  hands  of  a  knight  with- 
out having  asked  his  permission,  is  an  incautious  fool,  who 
may  be  beaten,  and  who  richly  deserves  it." 

**  Answer  me  this  syllogism  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,  nothing." 

"  But  listen,  listen.  To  strike  an  unarmed  person  is  a 
treacherous  act.  Atqui  the  messenger  de  quo  was  without 
arms.     Ergo  .  .  .  ." 

"  Gently,  gentlv,  Signor  Podesta." 

"Why 'gently?'" 

**  Gently,  I  say:  what  are  you  talking  about?  It  is  an 
act  of  treachery  to  give  a  man  a  blow  with  a  sword  behind 
him,  or  to  shoot  him  in  the  back;  and  to  this  even  there  are 
certain  exceptions  ....  but  we  will  keep  to  the  point.  I 
allow  that  this  may  generally  be  called  an  act  of  treachery; 
but  to  bestow  four  blows  on  a  paltry  fellow  like  him!  It 
would  have  been  a  likely  thing  to  say :  *  Take  care  I  don't  beat 
you,'  as  one  says  to  a  gentleman:  '  Draw  your  sword.'  And 
you,  respected  Signor  Doctor,  instead  of  smiling  at  me  there, 
and  giving  me  to  understand  you  are  of  my  opinion,  why 
don't  you  support  my  position  with  your  capital  powers  of 
argument,  and  help  me  to  drive  some  reason  into  the  head 
of  this  Signor?  " 


THE    BETROTHED 


65 


"  I  .  .  ."  replied  the  Doctor,  in  confusion.  *'  I  enjoy  this 
learned  dispute,  and  am  glad  of  the  accident  that  has  given 
occasion  to  so  agreeable  a  war  of  genius.  But  it  does  not 
belong  to  me  to  give  sentence:  his  illustrious  lordship  has  al- 
ready delegated  a  judge  .  .  .  the  Father  here  .  .  .  ." 

"True,"  said  Don  Rodrigo;  *' but  how  is  the  judge  to 
speak  when  the  disputants  will  not  be  silent?  " 

"  I  am  dumb,"  said  Count  Attilio.  The  Podesta  made  a 
sign  that  he  would  not  speak. 

"Ah,  at  last!  What  do  you  say,  Father?"  asked  Don 
Rodrigo  with  half-jesting  gravity. 

**  I  have  already  excused  myself  by  saying  I  don't  under- 
stand the  matter,"  replied  Friar  Cristoforo,  returning  the 
wine-glass  to  a  servant. 

"  Poor  excuses,"  cried  the  two  cousins.  "  We  must  have 
your  sentence." 

"  Since  you  wish  it,  my  humble  opinion  is  that  there  should 
be  neither  challenges,  bearers,  nor  blows." 

The  guests  interchanged  looks  of  unfeigned  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  bad!  "  exclaimed  Count  Attilio.  "  Par- 
don me.  Father,  but  this  is  too  bad.  It  is  easy  to  see  you 
know  nothing  of  the  world." 

"He?"  said  Don  Rodrigo.  "Ha!  ha!  he  knows  it, 
cousin,  as  well  as  you  do:  isn't  it  true.  Father? " 

Instead  of  replying  to  this  courteous  interrogation,  the 
Father  said  to  himself:  This  is  aimed  at  you;  but  remember, 
friar,  that  you  are  not  here  for  yourself;  and  that  which  af- 
fects you  only  is  not  to  be  taken  into  the  account. 

"It  may  be,"  said  the  cousin:  "but  the  Father  .  .  .  . 
what  is  his  name?  " 

"  Father  Cristoforo,"  replied  more  than  one. 

"  But,  Father  Cristoforo,  most  reverend  Father,  with  your 
principles  you  would  turn  the  world  upside  down.  Without 
challenges!  Without  blows!  Farewell  to  the  point  of  hon- 
our! impunity  for  all  villains.  Fortunately,  however,  the  sup- 
position is  impossible." 

"Up,  Doctor,  up,"  broke  in  Don  Rodrigo,  who  always  tried 
to  divert  the  argument  from  the  original  disputants.  "  You 
are  the  man  to  argue  on  any  matter.  Let  us  see  what  you  will 
do  in  discussing  this  question  with  Father  Cristoforo." 

"  Really,"  replied  the  Doctor,  brandishing  his  fork  in  the 
air,  and  turning  to  the  Father,  "  really  I  can  not  understand 
how  Father  Cristoforo,  who  is  at  once  the  perfect  devotee, 
and  a  man  of  the  world,  should  not  remember  that  his  sen- 
tence, good,  excellent,  and  of  just  weight,  as  it  is  in  the  pulpit, 
5 


06  MANZONI 

is  of  no  value  (with  due  respect  be  it  spoken)  in  a  question  of 
chivalry.  But  the  Father  knows,  better  than  I,  that  every- 
thing is  good  in  its  place;  and  I  think  that  this  time  he  has 
only  endeavoured  to  escape  by  a  jest  from  the  difficulty  of 
giving  sentence." 

What  can  one  reply  to  reasonings  deduced  from  wisdom 
so  ancient,  yet  so  new?     Nothing;  and  so  thought  our  friar. 

But  Don  Rodrigo,  wishing  to  cut  short  this  dispute,  pro- 
ceeded to  suggest  another.  "Apropos,"  said  he;  "I  hear 
there  are  rumours  of  an  accommodation  at  Milan." 

The  reader  must  know  that,  at  this  time,  there  was  a  con- 
test for  the  succession  to  the  Duchy  of  Mantua,  which,  on 
the  death  of  Vincenzo  Gonzaga,  who  left  no  male  issue,  had 
fallen  into  the  possession  of  the  Duke  of  Nevers,  Gonzaga's 
nearest  relative.  Louis  XIII,  or  rather  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
v/ished  to  support  him  on  account  of  his  being  well-disposed 
toward  the  French.  Philip  IV,  or  rather  the  Count  d'Oli- 
vares,  commonly  called  the  Count  Duke,  opposed  him  for  the 
same  reason,  and  had  declared  war  against  him.  As  the 
Duchy  was  a  fief  of  the  empire,  the  two  parties  made  interest, 
by  intrigue,  threats,  and  solicitations,  at  the  Court  of  the 
Emperor  Ferdinand  II;  the  former  urging  him  to  grant  the 
investiture  to  the  new  Duke,  the  latter  to  refuse  it,  and  even 
assist  in  banishing  him  from  the  State. 

*'  I  am  inclined  to  think,"  said  Count  Attilio,  "  that  mat- 
ters may  be  adjusted.     I  have  certain  reasons  .  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  Signor  Count,  don't  believe  it,"  inter- 
rupted the  Podesta;  "  even  in  this  corner  of  the  world  I  have 
means  of  ascertaining  the  state  of  things;  for  the  Spanish 
governor  of  the  castle,  who  condescends  to  make  me  his 
friend,  and  who  being  the  son  of  one  of  the  Count  Duke's  de- 
pendents, is  informed  of  everything  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  opportunity  every  day  at  Milan  of 
talking  with  great  men;  and  I  know,  on  good  authority,  that 
the  Pope  is  highly  interested  in  the  restoration  of  peace,  and 
has  made  propositions  .  .  .  ." 

"  So  it  ought  to  be,  the  thing  is  according  to  rule,  and 
his  Holiness  does  his  duty;  a  Pope  ought  always  to  mediate 
between  Christian  princes;  but  the  Count  Duke  has  his  own 
pohcy,  and  .  .  .  ." 

"  And,  and,  and — do  you  know,  my  good  Signor,  what 
the  Emperor  thinks  of  it  at  this  moment?  Do  you  think 
there  is  no  other  place  in  the  world  besides  Mantua?  There 
are  many  things  to  be  looked  after,  my  good  Signor.  Do 
you  know,  for  example,  how  far  the  empire  can,  at  this  mo- 


THE   BETROTHED  6/ 

ment,  confide  in  that  Prince  Valdistano,  or  Vallestai,  or  what- 
ever they  call  him;  and  whether  .  .  .  ." 

"  His  right  name  in  German,"  again  interrupted  the  Po- 
desta,  ''  is  Vagliensteino,  as  I  have  often  heard  it  pronounced 
by  our  Spanish  Signor,  the  governor  of  the  castle.  But  be 
of  good  courage,  for  .  .  .  ." 

"  Win  you  teach  me?"  exclaimed  the  Count,  angrily;  but 
Don  Rodrigo  motioned  to  him  with  his  knee,  for  his  sake, 
to  cease  contradiction.  He  therefore  remained  silent;  and 
the  Podesta,  like  a  vessel  disengaged  from  a  sand-bank,  con- 
tinued, with  wide-spread  sails,  the  course  of  his  eloquence. 
''  Vagliensteino  gives  me  little  concern,  because  the  Count 
Duke  has  his  eyes  on  everything,  and  in  every  place;  and  if 
Vagliensteino  chooses  to  play  any  tricks,  he  will  set  him  right 
with  fair  words  or  foul.  He  has  his  eye  everywhere,  I  say, 
and  long  arms;  and  if  he  has  resolved,  as  he  justly  has,  like 
a  good  politician,  that  the  Signor  Duke  of  Nevers  shall  not 
take  root  in  Mantua,  the  Signor  Duke  of  Nevers  will  not  take 
root  there,  and  the  Cardinal  Richelieu  will  sink  in  the  water. 
It  makes  me  smile  to  see  this  worthy  Signor  Cardinal  con- 
tending with  a  Count  Duke — with  an  Olivares.  I  should  like 
to  rise  again,  after  a  lapse  of  two  hundred  years,  to  hear  what 
posterity  will  say  of  these  fine  pretensions.  It  requires  some- 
thing more  than  envy:  there  must  be  a  head;  and  of  heads 
like  that  of  a  Count  Duke,  there  is  but  one  in  the  world.  The 
Count  Duke,  my  good  Signors,"  continued  the  Podesta,  sail- 
ing before  the  wind,  and  a  little  surprised  at  not  encounter- 
ing one  shoal,  *'  The  Count  Duke  is  an  aged  fox  (speaking 
with  all  respect),  who  can  make  anybody  lose  his  track;  when 
he  aims  at  the  right,  we  may  be  sure  he  Vv^ill  take  the  left;  so 
that  no  one  can  boast  of  knowing  his  intentions;  and  even 
they  who  execute  them,  and  they  who  write  his  despatches, 
understand  nothing  of  them.  I  can  speak  with  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  circumstances;  for  that  worthy  man,  the  governor 
of  the  castle,  deigns  to  place  some  confidence  in  me.  The 
Count  Duke,  on  the  other  hand,  knows  exactly  what  is  going 
forward  in  all  the  other  Courts,  and  their  great  politicians — 
many  of  whom,  it  can  not  be  denied,  are  very  upright  men — 
have  scarcely  imagined  a  design  before  the  Count  Duke  has 
discovered  it,  with  that  clever  head  of  his,  his  underhand  ways, 
and  his  nets  everywhere  spread.  That  poor  man,  the  Cardinal 
Richelieu,  makes  an  attempt  here,  busies  himself  there;  he 
toils,  he  strives;  and  what  for?  When  he  has  succeeded  in 
digging  a  mine,  he  finds  a  countermine  already  completed  by 
the  Count  Duke  .  .  .  ." 


68  MANZONI 

No  one  knows  when  the  Podesta  would  have  come  ashore, 
had  not  Don  Rodrigo,  urged  by  the  suggestions  of  his  cousin, 
ordered  a  servant  to  bring  him  a  certain  bottle  of  wine. 

"  Signor  Podesta,"  said  he,  ''and  gentlemen;  a  toast  to 
the  Count  Duke;  and  you  will  then  tell  me  whether  the  wine 
is  worthy  of  the  person."  The  Podesta  replied  by  a  bow,  in 
which  might  be  discerned  an  expression  of  peculiar  acknowl- 
edgment; for  all  that  was  said  or  done  in  honour  of  the  Duke, 
he  received,  in  part,  as  done  to  himself. 

"  Long  live  Don  Gasparo  Guzman,  Count  of  Olivares, 
Duke  of  San  Lucar,  grand  Private  of  the  King,  Don  Philip 
the  Great,  our  Sovereign!"  exclaimed  Don  Rodrigo,  raising 
his  glass. 

Private  (for  the  information  of  those  who  know  it  not) 
was  the  title  used  in  those  days  to  signify  the  favourite  of  a 
prince. 

"  Long  live  the  Count!  "  replied  all. 

"  Help  the  Father,"  said  Don  Rodrigo. 

"  Excuse  me,"  replied  the  Father;  "  but  I  have  already 
been  guilty  of  a  breach  of  discipline,  and  I  can  not  .  .  .  ." 

**  What!  "  said  Don  Rodrigo;  "  it  is  a  toast  to  the  Count 
Duke.  Will  you  make  us  believe  that  you  hold  with  the 
Navarrines?  " 

Thus  they  contemptuously  styled  the  French  Princes  of 
Navarre,  who  had  begun  to  reign  over  them  in  the  time  of 
Henry  IV. 

On  such  an  adjuration,  he  was  obliged  to  taste  the  wine. 
All  the  guests  broke  out  into  exclamations  and  encomiums 
upon  it,  except  the  Doctor,  who,  by  the  gesture  of  his  head, 
the  glance  of  his  eyes,  and  the  compression  of  his  lips,  ex- 
pressed much  more  than  he  could  have  done  by  words. 

"  What  do  yon  say  of  it,  eh,  Doctor? "  asked  Don  Ro- 
drigo. 

Withdrawing  from  the  wine-glass  a  nose  more  ruddy  and 
bright  than  itself,  the  Doctor  replied,  with  marked  emphasis 
upon  every  syllable:  *' I  say,  pronounce,  and  afhrm  that  this 
is  the  Olivares  of  wines;  censui,  et  in  eam  ivi  sententiam,  that 
its  equal  can  not  be  found  in  the  twenty-two  kingdoms  of  the 
King,  our  Sovereign,  whom  God  defend!  I  declare  and  de- 
termine that  the  dinners  of  the  most  noble  Signor  Don  Ro- 
drigo excel  the  suppers  of  Heliogabalus,  and  that  famine  is 
perpetually  banished  and  excluded  from  this  place,  where 
splendour  reigns  and  has  its  abode." 

"Well  said!  well  defined!"  cried  the  guests,  with  one 
voice;  but  the  word  famine,  which  he  had  uttered  by  chance, 


THE   BETROTHED  69 

at  once  directed  the  minds  of  all  to  this  mournful  subject,  and 
every  one  spoke  of  the  famine.  In  this  matter  they  were  all 
agreed,  at  least  on  the  main  point ;  but  the  uproar  was  greater, 
perhaps,  than  if  there  had  been  a  diversity  of  opinion.  All 
spoke  at  once.  "There  is  no  famine,''  said  one;  "it  is  the 
monopolists  .  .  .  ." 

"  And  the  bakers,"  said  another,  **'  who  hide  the  grain. 
Hang  them,  say  I." 

*'  Yes,  yes,  hang  them  without  mercy." 

**  Upon  fair  trial,"  cried  Podesta. 

"Trial?"  cried  Count  AttiUo,  more  loudly.  "Summary 
justice,  I  say.  Take  three  or  four,  or  five  or  six,  of  those  who 
are  acknowledged  by  the  common  voice  to  be  the  richest  and 
most  avaricious,  and  hang  them." 

"Examples!  examples! — without  examples,  nothing  can 
be  done." 

"Hang  them!  hang  them!  and  grain  will  flow  out  in 
abundance." 

Whoever,  in  passing  through  a  fair,  has  had  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  the  harmony  produced  by  a  party  of  fiddlers,  when, 
between  one  air  and  another,  each  one  tunes  his  instrument, 
making  it  sound  as  loud  as  possible,  that  he  may  the  more  dis- 
tinctly hear  it  in  the  midst  of,  and  above,  the  surrounding  up- 
roar, may  imagine  what  would  be  the  harmony  of  these  (if 
one  may  so  say)  discourses.  The  party  continued  pouring 
out  and  drinking  the  wine,  while  the  praises  of  it  were  min- 
gled, as  was  but  just,  with  sentences  of  economical  jurispru- 
dence; so  that  the  loudest,  and  most  frequently-heard,  words 
were — nectar,  and  hang  them. 

Don  Rodrigo,  in  the  mean  while,  glanced  from  time  to 
time  toward  the  friar,  and  always  saw  him  in  the  same  station, 
giving  no  signs  of  impatience  or  hurry,  without  a  movement 
tending  to  remind  him  that  he  w^as  awaiting  his  leisure,  but 
with  the  air  of  one  who  was  determined  not  to  depart  till  he 
had  had  a  hearing.  He  would  gladly  have  sent  him  away, 
and  escaped  the  interview;  but  to  dismiss  a  Capuchin  without 
having  given  him  an  audience,  was  not  according  to  the  rules 
of  his  policy.  However,  since  the  annoying  duty  could  not 
be  avoided,  he  resolved  to  discharge  it  at  once,  and  free  him- 
self from  the  obligation.  He  therefore  rose  from  the  table, 
and  with  him  all  the  excited  party,  without  ceasing  their  clam- 
our. Having  asked  leave  of  his  guests,  he  advanced  in  a 
haughty  manner  toward  the  friar,  who  had  immediately  risen 
with  the  rest;  and  saying  to  him,  "At  your  command.  Fa- 
ther," conducted  him  into  another  apartment. 


H 


CHAPTER   VI 

^^  T  T  OW  can  I  obey  you?  "  said  Don  Rodrlgo,  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  His  words  were  these;  but 
the  tone  in  which  they  were  pronounced,  clearly 
meant  to  say,  *'  Remember  before  whom  you  are 
standing,  take  heed  to  your  words,  and  be  expeditious." 

There  w^as  no  surer  or  quicker  w^ay  of  inspiring  Friar  Cris- 
toforo  with  courage,  than  to  address  him  with  haughtiness. 
He  had  stood  waveringly,  and  at  a  loss  for  words,  passing 
through  his  fingers  the  beads  of  the  rosary  that  hung  at  his 
girdle,  as  if  he  hoped  to  find  in  some  of  them  an  introduction 
to  his  speech;  but  at  this  behaviour  of  Don  Rodrigo's,  there 
instantly  rose  to  his  mind  more  to  say  than  he  had  want  of. 
Immediately,  however,  recollecting  how  important  it  was  not 
to  spoil  his  work,  or,  what  was  far  worse,  the  work  he  had 
undertaken  for  others,  he  corrected  and  tempered  the  lan- 
guage that  had  presented  itself  to  his  mind,  and  said,  with  cau- 
tious humility:  ''  I  come  to  propose  to  you  an  act  of  justice, 
to  supplicate  a  deed  of  mercy.  Some  men  of  bad  character 
have  made  use  of  the  name  of  your  illustrious  lordship,  to 
alarm  a  poor  curate,  and  dissuade  him  from  performing  his 
duty,  and  to  oppress  two  innocent  persons.  You  can  con- 
found them  by  a  word,  restore  all  to  order,  and  relieve  those 
who  are  so  shamefully  wronged.  You  are  able  to  do  it;  and 
being  able  ....  conscience,  honour  .  .  .  ." 

"  You  will  be  good  enough  to  talk  of  my  conscience  when 
I  ask  your  advice  about  it.  As  to  my  honour,  I  beg  to  in- 
form you,  I  am  the  guardian  of  it,  and  I  only;  and  that  who- 
ever dares  intrude  himself  to  share  the  guardianship  with  me, 
I  regard  as  a  rash  man,  who  offends  against  it." 

Friar  Cristoforo,  perceiving  from  these  words  that  the 
Signor  sought  to  put  a  wrong  construction  on  all  he  said,  and 
to  turn  the  discourse  into  a  dispute,  so  as  to  prevent  his  com- 
ing to  the  main  point,  bound  himself  still  more  rigidly  to  be 
patient,  and  to  swallow  every  insult  he  might  please  to  offer. 

70 


THE   BETROTHED 


71 


He  therefore  replied,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  If  I  have  said  any- 
thing to  offend  you,  I  certainly  did  not  intend  it.  Correct  me, 
reprove  me,  if  I  do  not  speak  becomingly,  but  deign  to  listen 
to  me.  For  Heaven's  sake — for  the  sake  of  that  God  in  whose 
presence  we  must  all  appear,"  and  in  saying  this,  he  took 
between  his  hands  the  little  cross  of  wood  appended  to  his 
rosary,  and  held  it  up  before  the  eyes  of  his  frowning  audi- 
tor; *'  be  not  obstinately  resolved  to  refuse  an  act  of  justice 
so  easy  and  so  due  to  the  poor.  Remember  that  God's  eye 
is  ever  over  them,  and  that  their  imprecations  are  heard  above. 
Innocence  is  powerful  in  His  .  .  .  ." 

''Aha!  Father!"  sharply  interrupted  Don  Rodrigo:  "the 
respect  I  bear  to  your  habit  is  great;  but  if  anything  could 
make  me  forget  it,  it  would  be  to  see  it  on  one  who  dares  to 
come  as  a  spy  into  my  house." 

These  words  brought  a  crimson  glow  upon  the  cheeks  of 
the  frair;  but  with  the  countenance  of  one  w^ho  swallows  a  very 
bitter  medicine,  he  replied:  "  You  do  not  think  I  deserve  such 
a  title.  You  feel  in  your  heart  that  the  act  I  am  now  perform- 
ing is  neither  wicked  nor  contemptible.  Listen  to  me,  Signor 
Don  Rodrigo;  and  Heaven  grant  a  day  may  not  come  in 
which  you  will  have  to  repent  of  not  having  listened  to  me! 
I  will  not  lessen  your  honour. — What  honour,  Signor  Don 
Rodrigo!  w^hat  honour  in  the  sight  of  men!  what  honour  in 
the  sight  of  God!     You  have  much  in  your  power,  but  .  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  you  know,"  said  Don  Rodrigo,  interrupting  him 
in  an  agitated  tone,  the  mingled  effect  of  anger  and  remorse, 
*'  don't  you  know  that  when  the  fancy  takes  me  to  hear  a 
sermon,  I  can  go  to  church  like  other  people?  But  in  my 
own  house!  Oh!"  continued  he,  with  a  forced  smile  of 
mockery:  "  You  treat  me  as  though  I  were  of  higher  rank 
than  I  am.  It  is  only  princes  who  have  a  preacher  in  their 
own  houses." 

**  And  that  God  who  requires  princes  to  render  an  account 
of  the  word  preached  to  them  in  their  palaces,  that  God  who 
now  bestows  upon  you  a  token  of  His  mercy,  by  sending  His 
minister,  though  indeed  a  poor  and  unworthy  one,  to  inter- 
cede for  an  innocent  .  .  .  ." 

"  In  short,  Father,"  said  Don  Rodrigo,  preparing  to  go,  **  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean:  I  can  only  suppose  there  must 
be  some  young  girl  you  are  concerned  about.  Make  con- 
fidants of  whom  you  please,  but  don't  have  the  assurance  to 
annoy  a  gentleman  any  longer." 

On  the  movement  of  Don  Rodrigo,  the  friar  also  ad- 
vanced, reverently  placed  himself  in  his  way,  raised  his  hands, 


72 


MANZONI 


both  in  an  attitude  of  supplication,  and  also  to  detain  him,  and 
again  replied:  "  I  am  concerned  for  her,  it  is  true,  but  not 
more  than  for  yourself:  there  are  two  persons  who  concern 
me  more  than  my  own  life.  Don  Rodrigo!  I  can  only  pray 
for  you;  but  this  I  will  do  with  my  whole  heart.  Do  not  say 
*  no  '  to  me;  do  not  keep  a  poor  innocent  in  anguish  and 
terror.     One  word  from  you  will  do  all." 

''  Well,"  said  Don  Rodrigo,  "  since  you  seem  to  think 
I  can  do  so  much  for  this  person;  since  you  are  so  much  in- 
terested for  her  .  .  .  ." 

*'Well?"  said  Friar  Cristoforo,  anxiously,  while  the  be- 
haviour and  countenance  of  Don  Rodrigo  forbade  his  indulg- 
ing in  the  hope  which  the  words  appeared  to  warrant. 

"  Well;  advise  her  to  come  and  put  herself  under  my 
protection.  She  shall  want  for  nothing,  and  no  one  shall  dare 
molest  her,  as  I  am  a  gentleman." 

At  such  a  proposal,  the  indignation  of  the  friar,  hitherto 
v/ith  difficulty  confined  within  bounds,  burst  forth  without  re- 
straint. All  his  good  resolutions  of  prudence  and  patience 
forsook  him,  the  old  nature  usurped  the  place  of  the  new;  and 
in  these  cases  Father  Cristoforo  was  indeed  like  two  different 
men.  "Your  protection!"  exclaimed  he,  retiring  a  step  or 
two,  and  fiercely  resting  on  his  right  foot,  his  right  hand 
placed  on  his  hip,  his  left  held  up,  pointing  with  his  fore-finger 
toward  Don  Rodrigo,  and  two  fiery-glancing  eyes  piercingly 
fixed  upon  him:  ''  your  protection!  Woe  be  to  you  that  you 
have  thus  spoken,  that  you  have  made  me  such  a  proposal. 
You  have  filled  up  the  measure  of  your  iniquity,  and  I  no 
long^er  fear  you." 

'  How  are  you  speaking  to  me,  friar?  " 

*'  I  speak  as  to  one  who  is  forsaken  by  God,  and  who  can 
no  longer  excite  fear.  I  knew  that  this  innocent  was  under 
God's  protection;  but  you,  you  have  now  made  me  feel  it 
with  so  much  certainty,  that  I  have  no  longer  need  to  ask  pro- 
tection of  you.  Lucia,  I  say — see  how  I  pronounce  this  name 
with  a  bold  face  and  unmoved  expression." 

"W^hat!  in  this  house!" 

"I  pity  this  house;  a  curse  is  suspended  over  it.  You 
will  see  whether  the  justice  of  God  can  be  resisted  by  four 
walls,  and  four  bravoes  at  your  gates.  Thought  you  that  God 
had  made  a  creature  in  his  image,  to  give  you  the  delight  of 
tormenting  her?  Thought  you  that  He  would  not  defend 
her?  You  have  despised  His  counsel,  and  you  will  be  judged 
for  it!  The  h^art  of  Pharaoh  was  hardened,  like  yours,  but 
God  knew  how  to  break  it.     Lucia  is  safe  from  you;  I  do  not 


THE   BETROTHED 


n 


hesitate  to  say  so,  though  a  poor  friar:  and  as  to  you,  Hsten 
what  I  predict  to  you.     A  day  will  come  .  .  .  ." 

Don  Rodrigo  had  stood  till  now  with  a  mingled  feeling  of 
rage  and  mute  astonishment;  but  on  hearing  the  beginning 
of  this  prediction,  an  undefined  and  mysterious  fear  was  added 
to  his  anger.  Hastily  seizing  the  Father's  outstretched  arm, 
and  raising  his  voice  to  drown  that  of  the  inauspicious 
prophet,  he  exclaimed,  "  Get  out  of  my  sight,  rash  villain — 
cowled  rascal !  " 

These  definite  appellations  calmed  Father  Cristoforo  in  a 
moment.  The  idea  of  submission  and  silence  had  been  so 
long  associated  in  his  mind  with  that  of  contempt  and  injury, 
that  at  this  compliment  every  feeling  of  warmth  and  enthusi- 
asm instantly  subsided,  and  he  only  resolved  to  listen  patiently 
to  whatever  Don  Rodrigo  might  be  pleased  to  subjoin. 
Quietly,  then,  withdrawing  his  arm  from  the  Signor's  grasp, 
he  stood  motionless,  with  his  head  bent  downward,  as  an 
aged  tree,  in  the  sudden  lulling  of  an  overbearing  storm,  re- 
sumes its  natural  position,  and  receives  on  its  drooping 
branches  the  hail  as  Heaven  sends  it. 

*' Vile  upstart!"  continued  Don  Rodrigo;  *' you  treat  me 
like  an  equal :  but  thank  the  cassock  that  covers  your  coward- 
ly shoulders  for  saving  you  from  the  caresses  that  such  scoun- 
drels as  you  should  receive,  to  teach  them  how  to  talk  to  a 
gentleman.  Depart  with  sound  limbs  for  this  once,  or  we 
shall  see." 

So  saying,  he  pointed  with  imperious  scorn  to  a  door  op- 
posite the  one  they  had  entered;  and  Father  Cristoforo  bowed 
his  head  and  departed,  leaving  Don  Rodrigo  to  measure,  with 
excited  steps,  the  field  of  battle. 

When  the  friar  had  closed  the  door  behind  him,  he  per- 
ceived some  one  in  the  apartment  he  had  entered,  stealing 
softly  along  the  wall,  that  he  might  not  be  seen  from  the  room 
of  conference;  and  he  instantly  recognized  the  aged  servant 
who  had  received  him  at  the  door  on  his  arrival.  This  man 
liad  lived  in  the  family  for  forty  years,  that  is,  since  before  Don 
Rodrigo's  birth,  having  been  in  the  service  of  his  father,  who 
was  a  very  different  kind  of  man.  On  his  death,  the  new 
master  dismissed  all  the  household,  and  hired  a  fresh  set  of 
attendants,  retaining,  however,  this  one  servant,  both  because 
he  was  old,  and  because,  although  of  a  temper  and  habits 
widely  different  from  his  own,  he  made  amends  for  this  defect 
by  two  qualifications — a  lofty  idea  of  the  dignity  of  the  house, 
and  long  experience  in  its  ceremonials:  with  the  most  ancient 
traditions  and  minute  particulars  of  which  he  was  better  ac- 


74 


MANZONI 


quainted  than  any  one  else.  In  the  presence  of  his  master, 
the  poor  old  man  never  ventured  a  sign,  still  less  an  expres- 
sion, of  his  disapprobation  of  what  he  saw  around  him  every 
day;  but  at  times  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from  some  ex- 
clamation— some  reproof  murmured  between  his  lips  to  his 
fellow-servants.  They,  highly  diverted  at  his  remarks,  would 
sometimes  urge  him  to  conversation,  provoking  him  to  find 
fault  with  the  present  state  of  things,  and  to  sound  the  praises 
of  the  ancient  way  of  living  in  the  family.  His  censures  only 
came  to  his  master's  ears  accompanied  by  a  relation  of  the 
ridicule  bestowed  upon  them,  so  that  they  merely  succeeded 
in  making  him  an  object  of  contempt  without  resentment. 
On  days  of  ceremony  and  entertainment,  however,  the  old 
man  became  a  person  of  serious  importance. 

Father  Cristoforo  looked  at  him  as  he  passed,  saluted  him, 
and  w^as  about  to  go  forward;  but  the  old  man  approached 
with  a  mysterious  air,  put  his  fore-finger  on  his  lips,  and  then 
beckoned  to  hm,  with  the  said  fore-finger,  to  accompany  him 
into  a  dark  passage,  where,  in  an  under  tone,  he  said,  *'  Father, 
I  have  heard  all,  and  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Speak  up,  then,  at  once,  my  good  man." 

*'  Not  here!  woe  to  us  if  the  master  saw  us!  But  I  can 
learn  much,  and  will  try  to  come  to-morrow  to  the  convent." 

**  Is  there  some  project?  " 

"  Something's  in  the  wind,  that's  certain :  I  had  already 
suspected  it;  but  now  I  will  be  on  the  watch,  and  will  find  out 
all.  Leave  it  to  me.  I  happen  to  see  and  hear  things  .... 
strange  things!  I  am  in  a  house!  ....  But  I  wish  to  save 
my  soul." 

"God  bless  you!"  said  the  friar,  softly  pronouncing  the 
benediction,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  servant's  head,  who, 
though  much  older  than  himself,  bent  before  him  with  the 
respect  of  a  son.  ''  God  will  reward  you,"  continued  the  friar; 
**  don't  fail  to  come  to  me  to-morrow." 

"I  will  be  sure  to  come,"  replied  the  servant;  "but  do 
you  go  quickly,  and  ....  for  Heaven's  sake  ....  don't  be- 
tray me."  So  saying,  and  looking  cautiously  around,  he 
went  out,  at  the  other  end  of  the  passage,  into  a  hall  that  led 
to  the  court-yard;  and  seeing  the  coast  clear,  beckoned  to  the 
good  friar,  whose  face  responded  to  the  last  injunction  more 
plainly  than  any  protestations  could  have  done.  The  old 
man  pointed  to  the  door,  and  the  friar  departed  without  further 
delay. 

This  servant  had  been  listening  at  his  master's  door.  Had 
he  done  right?     And  was  Father  Cristoforo  right  in  praising 


THE    BETROTHED  75 

him  for  it?  According  to  the  commonest  and  most  generally 
received  rules,  it  was  a  very  dishonest  act;  but  might  not  this 
case  be  regarded  as  an  exception?  And  are  there  not  excep- 
tions to  the  most  generally  received  rules? 

These  are  questions  which  we  leave  the  reader  to  resolve 
at  his  pleasure.  We  do  not  pretend  to  give  judgment:  it  is 
enough  that  we  relate  facts. 

Having  reached  the  road,  and  turned  his  back  upon  this 
wild  beast's  den,  Father  Cristoforo  breathed  more  freely,  as 
he  hastened  down  the  descent,  his  face  flushed,  and  his  mind, 
as  every  one  may  imagine,  agitated  and  confused  by  what  he 
had  recently  heard  and  said.  But  the  unexpected  proffer  of 
the  old  man  had  been  a  great  relief  to  him;  it  seemed  as  if 
Heaven  had  given  him  a  visible  token  of  its  protection.  Here 
is  a  clew,  thought  he,  that  Providence  has  put  into  my  hands. 
In  this  very  house,  too!  and  without  my  even  dreaming  of 
looking  for  one!  Engaged  in  such  thoughts,  he  raised  his 
eyes  toward  the  west,  and  seeing  the  setting  sun  already 
touching  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  was  reminded  that  the 
day  was  fast  drawing  to  a  close.  He  therefore  quickened  his 
steps,  though  weary  and  weak,  after  the  many  annoyances  of 
the  day,  that  he  might  have  time  to  carry  back  his  intelligence, 
such  as  it  was,  to  his  protege  and  arrived  at  the  convent  before 
night;  for  this  was  one  of  the  most  absolute  and  strictly-en- 
forced rules  of  the  Capuchin  discipline. 

In  the  mean  time,  there  had  been  plans  proposed  and  de- 
bated in  Lucia's  cottage,  with  which  it  is  necessary  to  acquaint 
the  reader.  After  the  departure  of  the  friar,  the  three  friends 
remained  some  time  silent;  Lucia,  with  a  sorrowful  heart, 
preparing  the  dinner;  Renzo  irresolute,  and  changing  his  po- 
sition every  moment,  to  avoid  the  sight  of  her  mournful  face, 
yet  without  heart  to  leave  her;  Agnese,  apparently  intent 
upon  the  reel  she  w^as  winding,  though,  in  fact,  she  was  de- 
liberating upon  a  plan;  and  when  she  thought  it  sufficiently 
matured,  she  broke  the  silence  with  these  words : 

"  Listen,  my  children.  If  you  have  as  much  courage  and 
dexterity  as  it  required;  if  you  will  trust  your  mother  (this 
'  your  mother,'  addressed  to  both,  made  Lucia's  heart  bound 
within  her),  I  will  undertake  to  get  you  out  of  this  difficulty, 
better,  perhaps,  and  more  quickly  than  Father  Cristoforo, 
though  he  is  such  a  man."  Lucia  stopped  and  looked  at  her 
mother  with  a  face  more  expressive  of  wonder  than  of  con- 
fidence in  so  magnificent  a  promise;  and  Renzo  hastily  ex- 
claimed, "  Courage?  dexterity? — tell  me,  tell  me  what  cam 
we  do?" 


76  MANZONI 

"  If  you  were  married,"  continued  Agnese,  ''  it  would  be 
the  great  difficulty  out  of  the  way — wouldn't  it?  and  couldn't 
we  easily  find  a  remedy  for  all  the  rest?  " 

*' Is  there  any  doubt?"  said  Renzo:  ''if  we  were  mar- 
ried. .  .  .  One  may  live  anywhere;  and,  at  Bergamo,  not  far 
from  here,  a  silk-weaver  would  be  received  with  open  arms. 
You  know  how  often  my  cousin  Bortolo  has  wanted  me  to 
go  and  live  with  him,  that  I  might  make  a  fortune,  as  he  has 
done;  and  if  I  have  never  listened  to  him,  it  is  ...  .  you 
know,  because  my  heart  was  here.  Once  married,  we  would 
all  go  thither  together,  and  live  in  blessed  peace,  out  of  this 
villain's  reach,  and  far  from  the  temptation  to  do  a  rash  deed. 
Isn't  it  true,  Lucia?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Lucia;  "but  how?" 

"  As  I  have  told  you,"  replied  Agnese.  "  Be  bold  and  ex- 
pert, and  the  thing  is  easy."  -a 

"  Easy!  "  at  the  same  moment  exclaimed  the  two  lovers, 
to  whom  it  had  become  so  strangely  and  sadly  difficult. 

"  Easy,  if  you  know  how  to  go  about  it,"  replied  Agnese. 
"  Listen  attentively  to  me,  and  I  will  try  and  make  you  under- 
stand it.  I  have  heard  say,  by  people  who  ought  to  know, 
and  I  have  seen  it  myself  in  one  case,  that  to  solemnize  a  mar- 
riage, a  curate,  of  course,  is  necessary,  but  not  his  good-will 
or  consent;  it  is  enough  if  he  is  present." 

"  How  can  this  be?"  asked  Renzo. 

"  Listen,  and  you  shall  hear.  There  must  be  two  wit- 
nesses, nimble  and  well  agreed.  They  must  go  to  the  priest; 
the  point  is  to  take  him  by  surprise,  that  he  mayn't  have  time 
to  escape.  The  man  says,  "  Signor  Curate,  this  is  my  wife;  " 
the  woman  says,  "  Signor  Curate,  this  is  my  husband."  It  is 
necessary  that  the  curate  and  the  witnesses  hear  it,  and  then  the 
marriage  is  just  as  valid  and  sacred  as  if  the  Pope  had  blessed 
it.  When  once  the  words  are  spoken,  the  curate  may  fret, 
and  fume,  and  storm,  but  it  v/ill  do  no  good;  you  are  man  and 
wife." 

"Is  it  possible?"  exclaimed  Lucia. 

"  What!  "  said  Agnese,  "  do  you  think  I  have  learnt  noth- 
ing in  the  thirty  years  I  was  in  the  world  before  you?  The 
thing  is  just  as  I  told  you;  and  a  friend  of  mine  is  a  proof  of  it, 
who,  wishing  to  be  married  against  the  will  of  her  parents,  did 
as  I  was  saying,  and  gained  her  end.  The  curate  suspected 
it,  and  was  on  the  watch;  but  they  knew  so  well  how  to  go 
about  it,  that  they  arrived  just  at  the  right  moment,  said  the 
words,  and  became  man  and  wife;  though  she,  poor  thing! 
repented  of  it  before  three  days  were  over." 


THE   BETROTHED  77 

It  was,  in  fact,  as  Agnese  had  represented  it;  marriages 
contracted  in  this  manner  were  then,  and  are  even  to  this  day, 
acknowledged  vahd.  As,  however,  this  expedient  was  never 
resorted  to  but  by  those  who  had  met  with  some  obstacle  or 
refusal  in  the  ordinary  method,  the  priest  took  great  care  to 
avoid  such  forced  co-operation;  and  if  one  of  them  happened 
to  be  surprised  by  a  couple,  accompanied  with  witnesses,  he 
tried  every  means  of  escape,  like  Proteus  in  the  hands  of  those 
who  would  have  made  him  prophesy  by  force. 

**  If  it  were  true,  Lucia!  "  said  Renzo,  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
her  with  a  look  of  imploring  expectation. 

''What!  if  it  were  true?"  replied  Agnese.  "You  think, 
then,  I  tell  lies.  I  do  my  best  for  you,  and  am  not  believed: 
very  well;  get  out  of  the  difficulty  as  you  can:  I  wash  my 
hands  of  it." 

"  Ah,  no!  don't  forsake  us,"  cried  Renzo.  ''  I  said  so  be- 
cause it  appeared  too  good  a  thing.  I  place  myself  in  your 
hands,  and  will  consider  you  as  if  you  were  really  my  mother." 

These  words  instantly  dispelled  the  momentary  indigna- 
tion of  Agnese,  and  made  her  forget  a  resolution  which,  in 
reality,  had  only  been  in  word. 

"  But  why,  then,  mother,"  said  Lucia,  in  her  usual  gentle 
manner,  "  why  didn't  this  plan  come  into  Father  Cristoforo's 
mind?" 

''  Into  his  mind?  "  replied  Agnese;  "  do  you  think  it  didn't 
come  into  his  mind?     But  he  wouldn't  speak  of  it." 

"  Why?  "  demanded  they  both  at  once. 

"  Because  ....  because,  if  you  must  know  it,  the  friars 
think  that  it  is  not  exactly  a  proper  thing." 

"  How  can  it  help  standing  firm,  and  being  well  done, 
when  it  is  done?  "  said  Renzo. 

"  How  can  I  tell  you?  "  replied  Agnese.  "  Other  people 
have  made  the  law  as  they  pleased,  and  we  poor  people  can't 
understand  all.  And  then,  how  many  things  ....  See;  it 
is  like  giving  a  Christian  a  blow.  It  isn't  right,  but  when  it  is 
once  given,  not  even  the  Pope  can  recall  it." 

''  if  it  isn't  right,"  said  Lucia,  "  we  ought  not  to  do  it." 

"What!"  said  Agnese,  "would  I  give  you  advice  con- 
trary to  the  fear  of  God?  If  it  were  against  the  will  of  your 
parents,  and  to  marry  a  rogue  ....  but  when  I  am  satisfied, 
and  it  is  to  wed  this  youth,  and  he  who  makes  all  this  disturb- 
ance is  a  villain,  and  the  Signor  Curate  .  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  as  clear  as  the  sun,"  said  Renzo. 

"  One  need  not  speak  to  Father  Cristoforo,  before  doing 
it,"  continued  Agnese;  "but  when  it  is  once  done,  and  has 


78 


MANZONI 


well  succeeded,  what  do  you  think  the  Father  will  say  to  you? 
— 'Ah,  daughter!  it  was  a  sad  error,  but  it  is  done.'  The 
friars,  you  know,  must  talk  so.  But  trust  me,  in  his  heart  he 
will  be  very  well  satisfied." 

Without  being  able  to  answer  such  reasoning,  Lucia  did 
not  think  it  appeared  very  convincing;  but  Renzo,  quite  en- 
couraged, said,  ''  Since  it  is  thus,  the  thing  is  done." 

"  Gently,"  said  Agnese.  *'  The  witnesses,  where  are  they 
to  be  found?  Then,  how  will  you  manage  to  get  at  the 
Signor  Curate,  who  has  been  shut  up  in  his  house  two  days? 
And  how  make  him  stand  when  you  do  get  at  him?  for 
though  he  is  weighty  enough  naturally,  I  dare  venture  to  say, 
when  he  sees  you  make  your  appearance  in  such  a  guise,  he 
will  become  as  nimble  as  a  cat,  and  flee  like  the  devil  from 
holy  water."  / 

"  I  have  found  a  way — I've  found  one,"  cried  Renzo,  strik- 
ing the  table  with  his  clenched  hand,  till  he  made  the  dinner- 
things  quiver  and  rattle  with  the  blow;  and  he  proceeded  to 
relate  his  design,  which  Agnese  entirely  approved. 

''It  is  all  confusion,"  said  Lucia;  "it  is  not  perfectly 
honest.  Till  now  we  have  always  acted  sincerely;  let  us  go 
on  in  faith,  and  God  will  help  us;  Father  Cristoforo  said  so. 
Do  listen  to  his  advice." 

"  Be  guided  by  those  who  know  better  than  you,"  said 
Agnese,  gravely.  "  What  need  is  there  to  ask  advice?  God 
bids  us  help  ourselves,  and  then  He  will  help  us.  We  will 
tell  the  Father  all  about  it  when  it  is  over." 
--i.  "  Lucia,"  said  Renzo,  "  will  you  fail  me  now?  Have  we 
not  done  all  like  good  Christians?  Ought  we  not  now  to 
have  been  man  and  wife?  Didn't  the  curate  himself  fix 
the  day  and  hour?  And  whose  fault  is  it,  if  we  are  now 
obliged  to  use  a  little  cunning?  No,  no;  you  won't  fail  me. 
I  am  going,  and  will  come  back  with  an  answer."  So  saying, 
he  gave  Lucia  an  imploring  look,  and  Agnese  a  very  knowing 
glance,  and  hastily  took  his  departure. 

It  is  said  that  trouble  sharpens  the  wit;  and  Renzo,  who, 
in  the  upright  and  straightforward  path  he  had  hitherto  fol- 
lowed, had  never  had  occasion  to  sharpen  his  in  any  great  de- 
gree, had,  in  this  instance,  planned  a  design  that  would  have 
done  honour  to  a  lawyer.  He  went  directly,  as  he  had  pur- 
posed, to  a  cottage  near  at  hand,  belonging  to  a  certain  Tonio, 
whom  he  found  busy  in  the  kitchen,  with  one  knee  resting 
on  the  stand  of  a  chafing-dish,  holding  in  his  right  hand  the 
handle  of  a  saucepan,  that  stood  on  the  burning  embers,  and 
stirring  with  a  broken  rolling-pin  a  little  grey  polenta  of  Tur- 


THE  BETROTHED 


79 


key  flour.  The  mother,  brother,  and  wife  of  Tonio  were  seated 
at  the  table;  and  three  or  four  Httle  children  stood  around, 
waiting,  with  eyes  eagerly  fixed  on  the  saucepan,  till  the 
gruel  should  be  ready  to  pour  out.  But  the  pleasure  was 
wanting  which  the  sight  of  dinner  usually  gives  to  those  who 
have  earned  it  by  hard  labour.  The  quantity  of  the  polenta 
was  rather  in  proportion  to  the  times  than  to  the  number  and 
inclinations  of  the  household;  and  each  one  eyeing  the  com- 
mon food  with  envious  looks  of  strong  desire,  seemed  to  be 
measuring  the  extent  of  appetite  likely  to  survive  it.  While 
Renzo  was  exchanging  salutations  with  the  family,  Tonio 
poured  out  the  polenta  into  the  wooden  trencher  that  stood 
ready  to  receive  it,  and  it  looked  like  a  little  moon  in  a  large 
circle  of  vapour.  Nevertheless,  the  women  courteously  said 
to  Renzo,  ''Will  you  take  some  with  us?" — a  compliment 
that  the  Lombard  peasant  never  fails  to  pay  to  any  one 
who  finds  him  at  a  meal,  even  though  the  visitor  were  a 
rich  glutton  just  risen  from  table,  and  he  were  at  the  last 
mouthful. 
^^  u  'pj-^^j^]^  you,"  replied  Renzo;  "  I  only  came  to  say  a  word 
or  tvv'o  to  Tonio;  and  if  you  like,  Tonio,  not  to  disturb  your 
family,  we  can  go  dine  at  the  inn,  and  talk  there."  This  pro- 
posal w^as  as  acceptable  to  Tonio  as  it  was  unexpected;  and 
the  women,  not  unwillingly,  saw  one  competitor  for  the  po- 
lenta removed,  and  that  the  most  formidable.  Tonio  did  not 
require  a  second  asking,  and  they  set  of¥  together. 

Arrived  at  the  village  inn,  they  sat  down  at  their  ease, 
perfectly  alone,  since  the  prevailing  poverty  had  banished  all 
the  usual  frequenters  of  this  scene  of  mirth  and  joviality. 
They  called  for  the  little  that  was  to  be  had,  and  having  emp- 
tied a  glass  of  wine,  Renzo  addressed  Tonio  with  an  air  of 
mystery,  ''  If  you  will  do  me  a  small  favour,  I  will  do  you  a 
great  one." 

"  What  is  it? — tell  me!  I'm  at  yo-ur  service,"  replied  Tonio, 
pouring  out  another  glass;  "  I'm  ready  to  go  into  the  fire  for 
you  to-day." 

"  You  are  in  debt  twenty-five  livres  to  the  Signor  Curate 
for  the  rent  of  his  field  that  you  worked  last  year." 

"Ah,  Renzo,  Renzo!  you've  spoiled  your  kindness.  Why 
did  you  remind  me  of  it  now?  You've  put  to  flight  all  my 
good  will  toward  you." 

"  If  I  reminded  you  of  your  debt,"  said  Renzo,  "  it  is  be- 
cause I  intend,  if  you  like,  to  give  you  the  means  of  paying  it." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  so?  " 

"  I  do  really.     Well,  are  you  content?  " 


80  MANZONI 

"Content?  I  should  think  so,  indeed!  if  it  were  for  no 
other  reason  than  to  get  rid  of  those  tormenting  looks  and 
shakes  of  the  head  the  Signor  Curate  gives  me  every  time  I 
meet  him.  And  then  it  is  always — '  Tonio,  remember:  Tonio, 
when  shall  I  see  you  to  settle  this  business?'  He  goes  so 
far,  that,  when  he  fixes  his  eyes  upon  me  in  preaching,  I'm 
half  afraid  he  will  say  publicly :  '  Those  twenty-five  livres ! '  I 
wish  the  twenty-five  livres  were  far  away!  And  then  he  will 
have  to  give  me  back  my  wife's  gold  necklace,  and  I  could 
change  it  into  so  much  polenta.     But  .  .  .  ." 

"  But,  if  you'll  do  me  a  little  service,  the  twenty-five  livres 
are  ready." 

*'  With  all  my  heart;  go  on." 

"  But!  "  said  Renzo,  laying  his  finger  across  his  lips. 

"  Need  you  tell  me  that?     You  know  me." 

"  The  Signor  Curate  has  been  starting  some  absurd  ob- 
jections, to  delay  my  marriage.  They  tell  me  for  certain, 
that  if  we  go  before  him  with  two  w^itnesses,  and  I  say,  *  This 
is  my  wife  ' ;  and  Lucia,  '  This  is  my  husband ' ;  the  marriage 
is  valid.     Do  you  understand  me?" 

**  You  want  me  to  go  as  a  witness?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you'll  pay  the  twenty-five  livres  for  me?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  mean." 

''  He's  a  goose  that  would  fail." 

"  But  we  must  find  another  witness." 

"  I  have  him !  That  young  clownish  brother  of  mine, 
Gervase,  will  do  anything  I  bid  him.  You'll  pay  him  with 
something  to  drink?  " 

"  And  to  eat,  too,"  replied  Renzo.  ''  We'll  bring  him  here 
to  make  merry  with  us.     But  will  he  know  what  to  do?  " 

"  I'll  teach  him.  You  know  I  have  got  his  share  of 
brains." 

''  To-morrow  ....". 

"  Well." 

"  Toward  evening  .  .  .  ." 

"  Very  well." 

"But!"  said  Renzo,  again  putting  his  finger  on  his 
lips. 

"Poh!"  replied  Tonio,  bending  his  head  on  his  right 
shoulder,  and  raising  his  left  hand,  with  a  look  that  seemed  to 
say.  Do  you  doubt  me? 

"  But  if  your  wife  questions  you,  as  without  doubt  she 
will  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  owe  my  wife  some  lies,  and  so  many,  that  I  don't  know 


THE   BETROTHED  gl 

if  I  shall  ever  manage  to  balance  the  account.  I'll  find  some 
idle  story  to  put  her  heart  at  rest,  I  warrant  you." 

*'  To-morrow,"  said  Renzo,  "  we  will  make  arrangements, 
that  everything  may  go  on  smoothly." 

So  saying,  they  left  the  inn,  Tonio  bending  his  steps  home- 
ward, and  contriving  some  tale  to  relate  to  the  women,  and 
Renzo  to  give  an  account  of  the  concerted  arrangements. 

In  the  mean  while,  Agnese  had  been  vainly  endeavouring 
to  convince  her  daughter.  To  every  argument,  Lucia  op- 
posed one  side  or  other  of  her  dilemma:  "  Either  the  thing 
is  wrong,  and  we  ought  not  to  do  it,  or  it  is  not  wrong,  and 
why  not  tell  it  to  Father  Cristoforo?  " 

Renzo  arrived  quite  triumphant,  and  reported  his  success, 
finishing  with  a  ahnf — a  Milanese  interjection  which  signifies 
— Am  I  a  man  or  not?  can  you  find  a  better  plan?  would  it 
ever  have  entered  your  head?  and  a  hundred  other  such 
things. 

Lucia  shook  her  head,  doubtfully;  but  the  two  enthu- 
siasts paid  little  attention  to  it,  as  one  does  to  a  child  when 
one  despairs  of  making  it  understand  all  the  reasons  of  a 
thing,  and  determines  to  induce  it  by  entreaties  or  authority 
to  do  as  it  is  required. 

"It  goes  on  well,"  said  Agnese,  ''very  well;  but  .  .  .  . 
you  haven't  thought  of  everything." 

''  What  is  wanting?  "  replied  Renzo. 

"Perpetua! — you  haven't  thought  of  Perpetual  She  will 
admit  Tonio  and  his  brother  well  enough,  but  you — you  two 
— just  think!  You  will  have  to  keep  her  at  a  distance,  as 
one  keeps  a  boy  from  a  pear-tree  full  of  ripe  fruit." 

"  How  shall  we  manage?  "  said  Renzo,  beginning  to  think. 

"  See,  now !  /  have  thought  of  that,  too ;  I  will  go  with 
you;  and  I  have  a  secret  that  will  draw  her  away,  and  engage 
her,  so  that  she  shan't  see  you,  and  you  can  go  in.  I'll  call 
her  out,  and  will  touch  a  chord  ....  You  shall  see." 

"Bless  you!"  exclaimed  Renzo;  "I  always  said  you  are 
our  help  in  everything." 

"  But  all  this  is  of  no  use,"  said  Agnese,  "  unless  we  can 
persuade  Lucia,  who  persists  in  saying  it  is  a  sin." 

Renzo  brought  in  all  his  eloquence  to  his  aid,  but  Lucia 
continued  immovable. 

"  I  can  not  answer  all  your  arguments,"  said  she;  "  but  I 
see  that,  to  do  what  you  want,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  use  a 
great  deal  of  disguise,  falsehood,  and  deceit.  Ah,  Renzo!  we 
didn't  begin  so.  I  wish  to  be  your  wife  " — and  she  could 
never  pronounce  this  word,  or  give  expression  to  this  desire, 
6 


82  MANZONI 

without  a  deep  flush  overspreading  her  cheek — ''  I  wish  to  be 
your  wife,  but  in  the  right  way — in  the  fear  of  God,  at  the 
altar.  Let  us  leave  all  to  Him  who  is  above.  Do  you  think 
He  can  not  find  means  to  help  us  better  than  we,  with  all  these 
deceitful  ways?  And  why  make  a  mystery  of  it  to  Father 
Cristoforo?  " 

The  dispute  was  still  prolonged,  and  seemed  not  likely 
to  come  to  a  speedy  conclusion,  when  the  hasty  tread  of  san- 
dals, and  the  sound  of  a  rustling  cassock,  resembling  the  noise 
produced  by  repeated  gusts  of  wind  in  a  slackened  sail,  an- 
nounced the  approach  of  Father  Cristoforo.  There  was  in- 
stant silence,  and  Agnese  had  scarcely  time  to  whisper  in 
Lucia's  ear,  "  Be  sure  you  say  nothing  about  it." 


CHAPTER   VII 

FATHER  CRISTOFORO  arrived  with  the  air  of  a  good 
general,  who  having  lost  an  important  battle,  without 
any  fault  on  his  part — distressed,  but  not  discouraged; 
thoughtful  but  not  confounded;  retreating,  but  not  put 
to  flight — turns  his  steps  where  necessity  calls  for  his  presence, 
fortifying  threatened  quarters,  regulating  his  troops,  and 
giving  new  orders. 

''  Peace  be  with  you!  "  said  he,  as  he  entered.  "  There  is 
nothing  to  hope  from  man;  you  have  therefore  more  need 
to  trust  in  God,  and  I  have  already  had  a  pledge  of  His  pro- 
tection." 

Although  none  of  the  party  had  anticipated  much  from 
Father  Cristoforo's  attempt  (since,  to  see  a  powerful  nobleman 
desist  from  an  act  of  oppression,  unless  he  were  overcome 
by  a  superior  power,  from  regard  to  the  entreaties  of  a  dis- 
armed suppliant,  was  rather  an  unheard  of,  than  a  rare,  oc- 
currence), yet  the  melancholy  certainty  came  as  a  blow  upon 
them  all.  Their  heads  involuntarily  drooped,  but  anger 
quickly  prevailed  over  depression  in  Renzo's  mind.  The  an- 
nouncement found  him  already  wounded  and  irritated  by  a 
succession  of  painful  surprises,  fallacious  attempts,  and  disap- 
pointed hopes,  and,  above  all,  exasperated  at  this  moment  by 
the  repulses  of  Lucia. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  he,  gnashing  his  teeth  and 
raising  his  voice  as  he  had  never  before  done  in  the  presence 
of  Father  Cristoforo — "  I  should  like  to  know  what  reasons 
this  dog  gives  for  asserting  ....  for  asserting  that  my  bride 
should  not  be  my  bride." 

"  Poor  Renzo !  "  replied  the  friar,  with  a  look  and  accent 
of  pity  that  kindly  recommended  peaceableness;  "  if  the  pow- 
erful, who  do  such  deeds  of  injustice,  were  always  obliged  to 
give  their  reasons,  things  would  not  be  as  they  are." 

"  Did  the  dog  then  say  that  he  would  not,  because  he  would 
not?" 

"He  didn't  even  say  that,  my  poor  fellow!     It  would  be 

83  ' 


84  MANZONI 

something,  if,  to  commit  iniquity,  they  were  obHged  openly  to 
confess  it." 

*'  But  he  must  have  told  you  something;  what  did  this  in- 
fernal firebrand  say?" 

'*  I  heard  his  words,  but  I  can  not  repeat  them  to  you. 
The  words  of  a  powerful  wicked  man  are  violent,  but  con- 
tradictory. He  can  be  angry  that  you  are  suspicious  of  him, 
and  at  the  same  time  make  you  feel  that  your  suspicions  are 
well-founded;  he  can  insult  you,  and  call  himself  ofifended; 
ridicule  you,  and  ask  your  opinion;  threaten,  and  complain; 
be  insolent,  and  irreprehensible.  Ask  no  more.  He  neither 
mentioned  the  name  of  this  innocent,  nor  your  own;  he  did 
not  even  appear  to  know  you,  nor  did  he  say  he  designed  any- 
thing; but  ....  but  I  understood  too  well  that  he  is  im- 
movable. However,  confidence  in  God,  you  poor  creatures!  " 
turning  to  Agnese  and  Lucia,  "  don't  give  up  in  despair!  And 
you,  Renzo  ....  oh!  believe  me,  I  can  put  myself  in  your 
place;  I  can  feel  what  passes  in  your  heart.  But,  patience; 
it  is  a  poor  word,  a  bitter  one  to  those  who  have  no  faith;  but 
you — will  you  not  allow  God  one  day,  two  days,  or  whatever 
time  He  may  please  to  take  to  clear  you  and  give  you  justice? 
The  time  is  His,  and  He  has  promised  us  much.  Leave  Him 
to  work,  Renzo;  and  ....  believe  me,  I  already  have  a  clew 
that  may  lead  to  something  for  your  help.  I  can  not  tell  you 
more  at  present.  To-morrow  I  shall  not  come  here;  I  must 
be  at  the  convent  all  day,  for  you.  You,  Renzo,  try  to  come 
to  me;  or  if,  by  any  unforeseen  accident,  you  can  not,  send  a 
trustworthy  man  or  a  lad  of  discretion,  by  whom  I  may  let 
you  know  what  may  happen.  It  grows  dark.  I  shall  have 
to  make  haste  to  reach  the  convent.  Faith,  courage,  and 
good  night." 

Having  said  this,  he  hastily  left  them,  and  made  his  way 
rapidly  along  a  crooked,  stony  by-path,  that  he  might  not 
be  late  at  the  convent,  and  run  the  risk  of  a  severe  reprimand, 
or,  what  would  have  grieved  him  more,  the  infliction  of  a 
penance,  which  might  have  disabled  him  on  the  morrow  for 
any  undertaking  which  the  service  of  his  proteges  might  re- 
quire. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  he  said  about  ....  I  don't  know 
what  ....  about  a  clew  that  he  held  in  his  hand  to  help  us?  " 
said  Lucia.  "  It  is  best  to  trust  in  him;  he  is  a  man  who, 
if  he  promises  ten  .  .  .  ." 

*'  I  know  there  is  not  his  like,"  interrupted  Agnese;  "but 
he  ought  to  have  spoken  more  clearly,  or,  at  least,  taken  me 
aside  and  told  me  what  it  was." 


THE   BETROTHED  85 

"Idle  prating!  I'll  put  an  end  to  it,  that  I  will!"  inter- 
rupted Renzo,  in  his  turn,  as  he  paced  furiously  up  and  down 
the  room,  with  a  look  and  tone  that  left  no  doubt  as  to  the 
meaning  of  his  words. 

"  Oh,  Renzo!"  exclaimed  Lucia. 

'*  What  do  you  mean?  "  cried  Agnese. 

"  Why  need  I  tell  you?  I'll  put  an  end  to  it!  Though  he 
has  a  hundred,  a  thousand  devils  in  his  soul,  he's  flesh  and 
blood,  after  all." 

**  No,  no!  for  Heaven's  sake!"  began  Lucia,  but  tears 
choked  her  utterance. 

"  This  is  not  proper  language,  even  in  jest,"  replied 
Agnese. 

'*  In  jest!  "  cried  Renzo,  planting  himself  directly  before 
Agnese,  as  she  sat,  and  fixing  on  her  two  fearful-looking  eyes. 
"  In  jest!  you  shall  see  whether  I  am  in  jest  or  not." 

"Ah,  Renzo!"  said  Lucia,  scarcely  able  to  articulate  for 
sobs,  "  I  never  saw  you  so  before." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  for  Heaven's  sake!  "  replied  Agnese,  has- 
tily, lowering  her  voice.  "  Don't  you  remember  how  many 
arms  he  has  at  his  bidding?  And  then,  there  is  always  justice 
to  be  had  against  the  poor!     God  defend  them!  " 

"  I  will  get  justice  for  myself,  I  will!  It  is  time  now.  The 
thing  isn't  easy,  I  know.  The  ruffian  is  well  defended,  dog 
that  he  is!  I  k^aow  how  it  is;  but  never  mind.  Patience  and 
resolution  ....  and  the  time  will  soon  arrive.  Yes,  I  will 
get  justice.  I'll  free  the  country,  and  people  will  bless  me! 
And  then  in  four  bounds  .  .  .  ." 

The  horror  of  Lucia  at  these  explicit  declarations  re- 
pressed her  sobs,  and  inspired  her  with  courage  to  speak. 
Raising  from  her  hands  her  face  bathed  in  tears,  she  addressed 
Renzo  in  a  mournful,  but  resolute  tone:  "  You  no  longer  care, 
then,  about  having  me  for  your  wife?  I  promised  myself  to 
a  youth  who  had  the  fear  of  God;  but  a  man  who  has  .... 
were  he  safe  from  all  justice  and  vengeance,  were  he  the  son 
of  a  king  .  .  .  ." 

"Very  well!"  cried  Renzo,  his  face  more  than  ever  con- 
vulsed with  fury;  "  I  won't  have  you,  then;  but  he  shan't 
either.  I  will  be  here  without  you,  and  he  in  the  abode 
of  .  .  .  ." 

"  Ah,  no,  for  pity's  sake,  don't  say  so ;  don't  look  so  furi- 
ous! No,  no,  I  can  not  bear  to  see  you  thus,"  exclaimed  Lu- 
cia, weeping,  and  joining  her  hands  in  an  attitude  of  earnest 
supplication;  while  Agnese  repeatedly  called  him  by  name, 
and  seized  hold  of  his  shoulders,  his  arms,  and  his  hands,  to 


86  MANZONI 

pacify  him.  He  stood  immovable,  thoughtful,  almost  over- 
come at  the  sight  of  Lucia's  imploring  countenance;  then, 
suddenly  gazed  at  her  sternly,  drew  back,  stretched  out  his 
arm,  and  pointing  with  his  finger  toward  her,  burst  forth: 
"  Her!  yes,  he  wants  her!     He  must  die!" 

"  And  /,  what  harm  have  I  done  you,  that  you  should 
kill  mef  "  said  Lucia,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees. 

"  You!  "  said  he,  with  a  voice  expressive  of  anger,  though 
of  a  far  different  nature;  "  you!  what  good  do  you  wish  me? 
What  proof  have  you  given  me?  Haven't  I  begged,  and 
begged,  and  begged?  ....  Have  I  been  able  to  ob- 
tain .  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  she,  precipitately;  "I  will  go  to  the 
curate's  to-morrow;  I  will  go  now,  if  you  like.  Only  be 
yourself  again,  I  will  go." 

"You  promise  me?"  said  Renzo,  his  voice  and  expres- 
sion rendered  in  an  instant  more  human. 

"  I  promise  you." 

"  You  have  promised  me?  " 

"  Thanks  be  to  Thee,  O  Lord!  "  exclaimed  Agnese,  doubly 
satisfied. 

Did  Renzo,  in  the  midst  of  his  anger,  discern  the  advan- 
tage that  might  be  taken  of  Lucia's  terror?  And  did  he  not 
practise  a  little  artifice  to  increase  it,  that  he  might  use  this 
advantage?  Our  author  protests  he  knows  nothing  about 
the  matter;  nor,  I  think,  did  even  Renzo  himself  know  very 
well.  At  any  rate,  he  was  undoubtedly  enraged  beyond  meas- 
ure with  Don  Rodrigo,  and  ardently  desired  Lucia's  consent; 
and  when  two  powerful  passions  struggle  together  in  a  man's 
mind,  no  one,  not  even  the  most  patient,  can  always  clearly 
discern  one  voice  from  the  other,  or  say,  with  certainty,  which 
of  them  predominates. 

"  I  have  promised  you,"  replied  Lucia,  with  an  accent  of 
timid  and  affectionate  reproof;  "but  you  have  also  promised 
not  to  make  any  disturbance — to  submit  yourself  to  Fa- 
ther .  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  now,  for  whose  sake  did  I  get  into  a  passion?  Do 
you  want  to  draw  back?  And  will  you  oblige  me  to  do  a  rash 
thing?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Lucia,  ready  to  relapse  into  her  former 
fears.  "  I  have  promised,  and  I  will  not  draw  back.  But  see 
how  you  have  made  me  promise;  God  forbid  that  .  .  .  ." 

"Why  will  you  prophesy  evil,  Lucia?  God  knows  we  do 
no  wrong  to  anybody." 

"  Promise  me,  at  least,  this  shall  be  the  last  time." 


THE   BETROTHED  87 

*'  I  promise  you,  upon  my  word." 

**  But  this  once  you  will  stand  by  him,"  said  Agnese. 

Here  the  author  confesses  his  ignorance  of  another  matter, 
and  that  is,  whether  Lucia  was  absolutely,  and  on  every  ac- 
count, dissatisfied  at  being  obliged  to  give  her  consent.  We 
follow  his  example,  and  leave  the  point  undecided. 

Renzo  would  willingly  have  prolonged  the  conversation, 
and  allotted  their  several  parts  in  the  proceedings  of  the  mor- 
row; but  it  was  already  dark,  and  the  women  wished  him 
good  night,  as  they  thought  it  scarcely  decorous  that  he 
should  remain  any  longer  with  them  at  so  late  an  hour. 

The  night  was  passed  by  all  three  as  well  as  could  be  ex- 
pected, considering  that  it  followed  a  day  of  such  excitement 
and  misfortune,  and  preceded  one  fixed  upon  for  an  im- 
portant undertaking  of  doubtful  issue.  Renzo  made  his  ap- 
pearance early  the  next  morning,  and  concerted  with  the  wom- 
en, or  rather  with  Agnese,  the  grand  operations  of  the  even- 
ing, alternately  suggesting  and  removing  difBculties,  foresee- 
ing obstacles,  and  both  beginning,  by  turns,  to  describe  the 
scene  as  if  they  were  relating  a  past  event.  Lucia  listened; 
and,  without  approving  in  words  what  she  could  not  agree  to 
in  her  heart,  promised  to  do  as  well  as  she  was  able. 

"  Are  you  going  down  to  the  convent  to  see  Father 
Cristoforo,  as  he  bid  you,  last  night  ? "  said  Agnese  to 
Renzo. 

'*  Not  I,"  replied  he;  *'  you  know  what  discerning  eyes  the 
Father  has;  he  will  read  in  my  looks,  as  if  it  were  written  in  a 
book,  that  there's  something  in  the  wind;  and  if  he  begins  to 
question  me,  I  can't  get  ofif  it  easily.  And  besides,  I  must 
stay  here  to  arrange  matters.  It  will  be  better  for  you  to  send 
somebody." 

"  I  will  send  Menico." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Renzo;  and  he  set  off  to  arrange 
matters,  as  he  had  said. 

Agnese  went  to  a  neighbouring  cottage  to  ask  for  Menico, 
a  sprightly  and  very  sensible  lad  for  his  age,  who,  through 
the  medium  of  cousins  and  sisters-in-law,  came  to  be  a  sort 
of  nephew  to  the  dame.  She  asked  his  parents  for  him,  as  for 
a  loan,  and  begged  she  might  keep  him  the  whole  day,  "  for  a 
particular  service,"  said  she.  Having  obtained  permission, 
she  led  him  to  her  kitchen,  gave  him  his  breakfast,  and  bid 
him  go  to  Pescarenico,  and  present  himself  to  Father  Cristo- 
foro, who  would  send  him  back  with  a  message  at  the  right 
time.  "  Father  Cristoforo,  that  fine  old  man,  you  know,  with 
a  white  beard,  who  is  called  the  Saint." 


88  MANZONI 

"I  understand,"  said  Menico;  "he  who  speaks  so  kindly 
to  the  children,  and  sometimes  gives  them  pictures." 

"  Just  so,  Menico.  And  if  he  bids  you  wait  some  time  at 
the  convent,  don't  wander  away;  and  be  sure  you  don't  go 
with  other  boys  to  the  lake  to  throw  stones  into  the  water,  nor 
to  watch  them  fish,  nor  to  play  with  the  nets  hung  up  to  dry, 
nor  .  .  .  ." 

"  Poh,  aunt;  I  am  no  longer  a  child." 

"Well,  be  prudent;  and  when  you  come  back  with  the 
answer  ....  look;  these  two  fine  new  parpagliole  are  for 
you." 

"  Give  me  them  now,  that  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,  you  will  play  with  them.  Go,  and  behave  well, 
that  you  may  have  some  more." 

In  the  course  of  this  long  morning  many  strange  things 
happened,  which  aroused  not  a  little  suspicion  in  the  already 
disturbed  minds  of  Agnese  and  Lucia.  A  beggar,  neither 
thin  nor  ragged,  as  they  generally  were,  and  of  somewhat 
dark  and  sinister  aspect,  came  and  asked  alms,  in  God's  name, 
at  the  same  time  looking  narrowly  around.  A  piece  of  bread 
was  given  him,  which  he  received,  and  placed  in  his  basket, 
with  ill-dissembled  indifiference.  He  then  loitered,  and  made 
many  inquiries,  with  a  mixed  air  of  impudence  and  hesitation, 
to  which  Agnese  endeavoured  to  make  replies  exactly  con- 
trary to  the  truth.  When  about  to  depart,  he  pretended  to 
mistake  the  door,  and  went  to  that  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
glancing  hastily  upward,  as  well  as  he  could.  On  their  call- 
ing him  back — "Hey!  hey!  where  are  you  going,  my  good 
man? — this  way!  "  he  turned  and  went  out  by  the  door  that 
was  pointed  out  to  him,  excusing  himself  with  a  submission, 
and  an  affected  humility,  that  ill  accorded  with  the  fierce  and 
hard  features  of  his  face.  After  his  departure,  they  continued 
to  mark,  from  time  to  time,  other  suspicious  and  strange 
figures.  It  was  not  easy  to  discern  what  kind  of  men  they 
were;  yet  still  they  could  not  believe  them  to  be  the  unpre- 
tending passers-by  they  wished  to  appear.  One  would  enter 
under  pretence  of  asking  the  way ;  others,  arriving  at  the  door, 
slackened  their  pace,  and  peeped  through  the  little  yard  into 
the  room,  as  if  wishing  to  see  without  exciting  suspicion.  At 
last,  toward  noon,  these  annoying  and  alarming  appearances 
ceased.  Agnese  got  up  occasionally,  and  crossed  the  little 
yard  to  the  street-door,  to  reconnoitre ;  and  after  looking  anx- 
iously around  on  either  side,  returned  with  the  intelligence, 
"There's  nobody;"  words  which  she  uttered  with  pleasure, 
and  Lucia  heard  with  satisfaction,  neither  one  nor  the  other 


THE   BETROTHED 


89 


knowing  exactly  the  reason  why.  But  an  undefined  dis- 
quietude haunted  their  steps,  and,  with  Lucia  especially,  in 
some  degree  cooled  the  courage  they  had  summoned  up  for 
the  proceedings  of  the  evening. 

The  reader,  however,  must  be  told  something  more  defi- 
nite about  these  mysterious  wanderers;  and  to  relate  it  in  or- 
der, we  must  turn  back  a  step  or  two,  and  find  Don  Rodrigo, 
whom  we  left  yesterday  after  dinner  by  himself,  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  his  palace,  after  the  departure  of  Father  Cristoforo. 

Don  Rodrigo,  as  we  have  said,  paced  backward  and  for- 
ward with  long  strides  in  this  spacious  apartment,  surround- 
ed on  all  sides  by  the  family  portraits  of  many  generations. 
When  he  reached  the  wall  and  turned  round,  his  eye  rested 
upon  the  figure  of  one  of  his  warlike  ancestors,  the  terror  of 
his  enemies,  and  of  his  own  soldiers;  who,  with  a  stern,  grim 
countenance,  his  short  hair  standing  erect  from  his  forehead, 
his  large  sharp  whiskers  covering  his  cheeks,  and  his  hooked 
chin,  stood  like  a  warrior,  clothed  in  a  complete  suit  of  steel 
armour,  with  his  right  hand  pressing  his  side,  and  the  left 
grasping  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  Don  Rodrigo  gazed  upon  it, 
and  when  he  arrived  beneath  it,  and  turned  back,  beheld  be- 
fore him  another  of  his  forefathers,  a  magistrate,  and  the  ter- 
ror of  litigants,  seated  in  a  high  chair,  covered  with  crimson 
velvet,  enveloped  in  an  ample  black  robe,  so  that  he  was  en- 
tirely black,  excepting  for  a  white  collar,  with  two  large  bands, 
and  a  lining  of  sable,  turned  wrong  side  outward  (this  was 
the  distinctive  mark  of  senators,  but  only  worn  in  winter;  for 
which  reason  the  picture  of  a  senator  in  summer-clothing  is 
never  met  with),  squalid,  and  frowning;  he  held  in  his  hand 
a  memorial,  and  seemed  to  be  saying,  *'  We  shall  see."  On 
the  one  hand  was  a  matron,  the  terror  of  her  maids;  on  the 
other,  an  abbot,  the  terror  of  his  monks;  in  short,  they  were 
all  persons  who  had  been  objects  of  terror  while  alive,  and 
who  now  inspired  dread  by  their  likenesses.  In  the  presence 
of  such  remembrances,  Don  Rodrigo  became  enraged  and 
ashamed,  as  he  reflected  that  a  friar  had  dared  to  come  to 
him  with  the  parable  of  Nathan;  and  his  mind  could  find  no 
peace.  He  would  form  a  plan  of  revenge,  and  then  abandon 
it,  seek  how,  at  the  same  time,  to  satisfy  his  passion,  and  what 
he  called  his  honour;  and  sometimes,  hearing  the  beginning 
of  the  prophecy  resounding  in  his  ears,  he  would  involuntarily 
shudder,  and  be  almost  inclined  to  give  up  the  idea  of  the  two 
satisfactions.  At  last,  for  the  sake  of  doing  something,  he 
called  a  servant,  and  desired  him  to  make  an  apology  for  him 
to  the  company,  and  to  say  that  he  was  detained  by  urgent 


90 


MANZONI 


business.  The  servant  returned  with  the  intelHgence  that  the 
gentlemen,  having  left  their  compliments,  had  taken  their  leave. 

"And  Count  Attilio?"  asked  Don  Rodrigo,  still  pacing 
the  room. 

''  He  left  with  the  gentlemen,  illustrious  Signor." 

"  Very  well;  six  followers  to  accompany  me — quickly!  my 
sword,  cloak,  and  hat,  immediately!  " 

The  servant  replied  by  a  bow,  and  withdrew,  returning 
shortly  with  a  rich  sword,  which  his  master  buckled  on,  a 
cloak  which  he  threw  over  his  shoulders,  and  a  hat,  orna- 
mented with  lofty  plumes,  which  he  placed  on  his  head,  and 
fastened  with  a  haughty  air.  He  then  moved  forward,  and 
found  the  six  bravoes  at  the  door,  completely  armed,  who, 
making  way  for  him  with  a  low  bow,  followed  as  his  train. 
More  surly,  more  haughty,  and  more  supercilious  than  usual, 
he  left  his  palace,  and  took  the  way  toward  Lecco,  amid  the 
salutations  and  profound  bows  of  the  peasants  he  happened 
to  meet;  and  the  ill-mannered  wight  who  would  have  ven- 
tured to  pass  without  taking  off  his  hat,  might  consider  he  had 
purchased  the  exemption  at  a  cheap  rate,  had  the  bravoes  in 
the  train  been  contented  merely  to  enforce  respect  by  a  blow 
on  the  head.  To  these  salutations  Don  Rodrigo  made  no 
acknowledgment;  but  to  men  of  higher  rank,  though  still  in- 
disputably inferior  to  his  own,  he  replied  with  constrained 
courtesy.  He  did  not  chance  this  time,  but  when  he  did  hap- 
pen to  meet  with  the  Spanish  Signor,  the  governor  of  the 
castle,  the  salutations  were  equally  profound  on  both  sides;  it 
was  like  the  meeting  of  two  potentates,  who  having  nothing 
to  share  between  them,  yet,  for  convenience'  sake,  pay  respect 
to  each  other's  rank.  ^;  To  pass  away  the  time,  by  the  sight  of 
far  different  faces  and  behaviour,  to  banish  the  image  of  the 
friar,  which  continually  haunted  his  mind,  Don  Rodrigo  en- 
tered a  house  where  a  large  party  was  assembled,  and  where  he 
was  received  with  that  officious  and  respectful  cordiality  re- 
served for  those  who  are  greatly  courted,  and  greatly  feared. 
Late  at  night  he  returned  to  his  own  palace,  and  found  that 
Count  Attilio  had  just  arrived;  and  they  sat  down  to  supper 
together,  Don  Rodrigo  buried  in  thought,  and  very  silent. 

"  Cousin,  when  will  you  pay  your  wager?  "  asked  Count 
Attilio,  in  a  malicious,  and  at  the  same  time  rallying,  tone,  as 
soon  as  the  table  was  cleared,  and  the  servants  had  departed. 

**  St.  Martin  has  not  yet  passed." 

"  Well,  remember  you  will  have  to  pay  it  soon;  for  all  the 
saints  in  the  calendar  will  pass  before  .  .  .  ." 

"  This  has  to  be  seen  yet." 


THE   BETROTHED 


91 


"Cousin,  you  want  to  play  the  politician;  but  I  under- 
stand all;  and  I  am  so  certain  of  having  won  my  wager,  that 
I  am  ready  to  lay  another." 

"What?" 

"  That  the  Father  ....  the  Father  ....  I  mean,  in 
short,  that  this  friar  has  converted  you." 

"  It  is  a  mere  fancy  of  your  own." 

"  Converted,  cousin;  converted,  I  say.  I,  for  my  part,  am 
delighted  at  it.  What  a  fine  sight  it  will  be  to  see  you  quite 
penitent,  with  downcast  eyes!  And  what  triumph  for  this 
Father!  How  proudly  he  must  have  returned  to  the  convent! 
You  are  not  such  fish  as  they  catch  every  day,  nor  in  every 
net.  You  may  be  sure  they  will  bring  you  forward  as  an  ex- 
ample; and  wdien  you  go  on  a  mission  to  some  little  distance, 
they  will  talk  of  your  acts.  I  can  fancy  I  hear  them."  And, 
speaking  through  his  nose,  accompanying  the  words  with 
caricatured  gestures,  he  continued,  in  a  sermon-like  tone: 
"  '  In  a  certain  part  of  the  world,  which  from  motives  of  high 
respect  we  forbear  to  name,  there  lived,  my  dear  hearers,  and 
there  still  lives,  a  dissolute  gentleman,  the  friend  of  women 
rather  than  of  good  men,  who,  accustomed  to  make  no  dis- 
tinctions, had  set  his  eyes  upon  ....'" 

''  That  will  do  ...  .  enough,"  interrupted  Don  Rodrigo, 
half  amused  and  half  annoyed;  "if  you  wish  to  repeat  the 
wager,  I  am  ready,  too." 

"  Indeed!  perhaps,  then  yon  have  converted  the  Father?" 

"Don't  talk  to  me  about  him:  and  as  to  the  bet,  Saint 
Martin  will  decide."  The  curiosity  of  the  Count  was  aroused; 
he  put  numberless  questions,  but  Don  Rodrigo  contrived  to 
evade  them  all,  referring  everything  to  the  day  of  decision, 
and  unwilling  to  communicate  designs  which  were  neither  be- 
gun nor  absolutely  determined  upon. 

Next  morning,  Don  Rodrigo  was  himself  again.  The 
slight  compunction  that  "  a  day  will  come  "  had  awakened  in 
his  mind,  had  vanished  with  the  dreams  of  the  night;  and 
nothing  remained  but  a  feeling  of  deep  indignation,  rendered 
more  vivid  by  remorse  for  his  passing  weakness.  The  re- 
membrance of  his  late  almost  triumphant  walk,  of  the  pro- 
found salutations,  and  the  receptions  he  had  met  with,  to- 
gether with  the  rallying  of  his  cousin,  had  contributed  not  a 
little  to  renew  his  former  spirit.  Hardly  risen,  he  sent  for 
Griso.  Something  important — thought  the  servant  to  whom 
the  order  was  given ;  for  the  man  who  bore  this  assumed  name 
was  no  less  a  personage  than  the  head  of  the  bravoes,  to 
whom  the  boldest  and  most  dangerous  enterprises  were  con- 


92 


MANZONI 


fided,  who  was  the  most  trusted  by  his  master,  and  was  de- 
voted to  him,  at  all  risks,  by  gratitude  and  interest.  Guilty 
of  murder,  he  had  sought  the  protection  of  Don  Rodrigo,  to 
escape  the  pursuit  of  justice;  and  he,  by  taking  him  into  his 
service,  had  sheltered  him  from  the  reach  of  persecution. 
Here,  by  engaging  in  every  crime  that  was  required  of  him, 
he  was  secured  from  the  punishment  of  the  first  fault.  To 
Don  Rodrigo  the  acquisition  had  been  of  no  small  impor- 
tance; for  this  Griso,  besides  being  undoubtedly  the  most  cou- 
rageous of  the  household,  as  also  a  specimen  of  what  his 
master  had  been  able  to  attempt  with  impunity  against  the 
laws;  so  that  Don  Rodrigo's  power  was  aggrandized  both  in 
reality  and  in  common  opinion. 

*' Griso!"  said  Don  Rodrigo,  "in  this  emergency  it  will 
be  seen  what  you  are  worth.  Before  to-morrow,  Lucia  must 
be  in  this  palace." 

"  It  shall  never  be  said  that  Griso  shrank  from  the  com- 
mand of  his  noble  protector." 

"  Take  as  many  men  as  you  want,  dispose  and  order  them 
as  you  think  best,  only  let  the  thing  succeed  well.  But,  above 
all,  be  sure  you  do  her  no  harm." 

"  Signor,  a  little  fright,  that  she  may  not  make  too  much 
noise.     One  can  not  do  less." 

*'  Fear  ....  I  see  ....  is  inevitable.  But  don't  you 
touch  a  hair  of  her  head;  and,  above  all,  treat  her  with  the 
greatest  respect.     Do  you  understand?" 

''  Signor,  I  could  not  pluck  a  flower  from  its  stalk,  and 
bring  it  to  your  lordship,  without  touching  it  a  little.  But  I 
will  do  no  more  than  is  necessary." 

"  Beware  you  do  not.  And  ....  how  will  you  man- 
age?" 

"  I  was  thinking,  Signor.  It  is  fortunate  that  the  house 
is  at  the  end  of  the  village.  We  shall  want  a  place  to  conceal 
ourselves  in;  and  at  a  little  distance  there's  that  uninhabited 
building  in  the  middle  of  the  fields,  that  house  ....  but 
your  lordship  knows  nothing  of  these  things  ....  a  house 
that  was  burnt  down  a  few  years  ago ;  and  there  have  been  no 
funds  to  rebuild  it,  so  it  is  forsaken,  and  is  haunted  by  witches; 
but  it  is  not  Saturday,  and  I  don't  care  for  them.  The  vil- 
lagers are  so  superstitious,  they  wouldn't  enter  it  any  night  of 
the  week  for  a  treasure,  so  we  may  safely  dispose  ourselves 
there,  without  any  fear  of  being  disturbed  in  our  plans." 

"Very  good:  and  what  then?" 

Here  Griso  went  on  to  propose,  and  Don  Rodrigo  to  dis- 
cuss, till  they  had,  together,  concerted  a  way  to  bring  the  en- 


THE   BETROTHED 


93 


terprise  to  an  end  without  a  trace  of  its  authors  remaining. 
They  even  contrived  means  to  turn  all  the  suspicions,  by 
making  false  indications,  upon  another  quarter;  to  impose 
silence  upon  poor  Agnese ;  to  inspire  Renzo  with  such  fear  as 
would  overbalance  his  grief,  efface  the  thought  of  having  re- 
course to  the  law,  and  even  the  wish  to  complain;  and  ar- 
ranged all  the  other  minor  villainies  necessary  to  the  success  of 
this  principal  one.  We  will  omit  the  account  of  these  con- 
sultations, however,  because,  as  the  reader  will  perceive,  they 
are  not  necessary  to  the  comprehension  of  the  story,  and  it 
will  only  be  tedious,  both  to  him  and  us,  to  entertain  ourselves 
for  any  length  of  time  with  the  discussions  of  these  two  de- 
testable villains.  It  will  suffice  to  say  that,  as  Griso  was  on 
the  point  of  leaving  the  room,  to  go  about  the  execution  of  his 
undertaking  at  once,  Don  Rodrigo  called  him  back,  and  said: 
''  Listen:  if  by  any  chance  this  rash  clown  should  molest  you 
to-night,  it  would  not  be  amiss  if  you  were  to  give  him  some- 
thing to  remember,  on  his  shoulders,  by  way  of  anticipation. 
By  this  means,  the  command  to  keep  quiet,  which  shall  be  in- 
timated to  him  to-morrow,  will  more  surely  take  effect.  But 
don't  go  to  look  for  him,  lest  you  should  spoil  what  is  of  more 
importance.     Do  you  understand  me?" 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  replied  Griso,  bowing  with  an  obsequi- 
ous and  ostentatious  air,  as  he  departed. 

The  morning  was  spent  in  reconnoitering  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  feigned  beggar  who  had  intruded  himself  so  per- 
tinaciously into  Agnese's  humble  cottage  was  no  other  than 
Griso,  who  had  come  to  get  an  idea  of  the  plan  of  the  house 
by  sight;  the  pretended  passengers  were  his  vile  followers, 
who,  operating  under  his  orders,  required  a  less  minute  ac- 
quaintance with  the  place.  Their  observations  being  made, 
they  withdrew  from  notice,  lest  they  should  excite  too  much 
suspicion. 

When  they  returned  to  the  palace,  Griso  made  his  report, 
arranged  definitely  the  plan  of  the  enterprise,  assigned  to 
each  his  different  part,  and  gave  his  instructions.  All  this 
could  not  be  transacted  without  the  old  servant's  observation, 
who,  with  his  eyes  and  ears  constantly  on  the  alert,  discovered 
that  they  were  plotting  some  great  undertaking.  By  dint  of 
watching  and  questioning,  getting  half  a  hint  here,  and  an- 
other half  there,  commenting  in  his  own  mind  on  ambiguous 
inferences,  and  interpreting  mysterious  departures,  he  at  length 
came  to  a  pretty  clear  knowledge  of  all  the  designs  of  the 
evening.  But  when  he  was  assured  of  them,  it  was  very  near 
the  time,  and  already  a  small  detachment  of  bravoes  had  left 


94 


MANZONI 


the  palace,  and  set  off  to  conceal  themselves  in  the  ruined 
building.  The  poor  old  man,  although  he  well  knew  what  a 
dangerous  game  he  was  playing,  and  feared,  besides,  that  he 
was  doing  no  efficient  service,  yet  failed  not  to  fulfil  his  en- 
gagement. He  went  out,  under  pretence  of  taking  the  air, 
and  proceeded  in  great  haste  to  the  convent,  to  give  Father 
Cristoforo  the  promised  information.  Shortly  afterward,  a 
second  party  of  bravoes  was  sent  out,  one  or  two  at  a  time, 
that  they  might  not  appear  to  be  one  company.  Griso  made 
up  the  rear,  and  then  nothing  remained  behind  but  a  litter, 
which  was  to  be  brought  to  the  place  of  rendezvous  after  dark. 
When  they  were  all  assembled  there,  Griso  despatched  three 
of  them  to  the  inn  in  the  village;  one  was  to  place  himself  at 
the  door,  to  watch  the  movements  in  the  street,  and  to  give 
notice  when  all  the  inhabitants  had  retired  to  rest;  the  other 
two  were  to  remain  inside,  gaming  and  drinking,  as  if  enjoy- 
ing themselves,  but  were  also  to  be  on  the  look-out,  if  any- 
thing was  to  be  seen.  Griso,  with  the  body  of  the  troop,  wait- 
ed in  ambuscade  till  the  time  of  action  should  arrive. 

The  poor  old  man  was  still  on  his  way,  the  three  scouts 
had  arrived  at  their  post,  and  the  sun  was  setting,  when  Renzo 
entered  the  cottage,  and  said  to  the  women :  '*  Tonio  and  Ger- 
vase  are  here  outside :  I  am  going  with  them  to  sup  at  the  inn ; 
and  at  the  sound  of  the  Ave  Maria,  we  will  come  to  fetch  you. 
Come,  Lucia,  courage;  all  depends  upon  a  moment."  Lucia 
sighed,  and  replied,  "  Oh  yes,  courage!  "  with  a  tone  that  be- 
lied her  words. 

When  Renzo  and  his  two  companions  reached  the  inn, 
they  found  the  bravo  already  there  on  the  watch,  leaning  with 
his  back  against  one  of  the  jambs  of  the  doorway,  so  as  to 
occupy  half  its  width,  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast,  and 
glancing  with  a  prying  look  to  the  right  and  left,  showing  al- 
ternately the  blacks  and  whites  of  two  grifffn-like  eyes.  A 
flap  of  crimson  velvet,  put  on  sideways,  covered  half  the  lock 
of  hair  which,  parted  on  a  dark  forehead,  terminated  in  tresses 
confined  by  a  comb  at  the  back  of  the  head.  He  held  in  one 
hand  a  short  cudgel;  his  weapons,  properly  speaking,  were 
not  visible,  but  one  had  only  to  look  at  his  face,  and  even  a 
child  would  have  guessed  that  he  had  as  many  under  his 
clothes  as  he  could  carry.  When  Renzo,  the  foremost  of  the 
three,  approached  him  and  seemed  prepared  to  enter,  the 
bravo  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him,  without  attempting  to  make 
way;  but  the  youth,  intent  on  avoiding  any  questions  or  dis- 
putes, as  people  generally  are  who  have  an  intricate  under- 
taking in  hand,  did  not  even  stop  to  say  "  Make  room;  "   but 


THE   BETROTHED 


95 


grazing  the  other  door-post,  pushed,  side  foremost,  through 
the  opening  left  by  this  Caryatid.  His  companions  were 
obHged  to  practise  the  same  manoeuvre,  if  they  wished  to  en- 
ter. When  they  got  in,  they  saw  the  others  whose  voices 
they  had  heard  outside,  sitting  at  a  table,  playing  at  Mora, 
both  exclaiming  at  once,  and  alternately  pouring  out  some- 
thing to  drink  from  a  large  flask  placed  between  them.  They 
fixed  their  eyes  steadily  on  the  new  comers;  and  one  of  them, 
especially,  holding  his  right  hand  extended  in  the  air,  with 
three  enormous  fingers  just  shot  forth,  and  his  mouth  formed 
to  utter  the  word  '*  six,"  which  burst  forth  at  the  moment, 
eyed  Renzo  from  head  to  foot,  and  glanced  first  at  his  com- 
panion, then  at  the  one  at  the  door,  who  replied  with  a  nod 
of  his  head.  Renzo,  suspicious  and  doubtful,  looked  at  his 
friends,  as  if  seeking  in  their  countenances  an  interpretation 
of  all  these  gestures;  but  their  countenances  indicated  noth- 
ing beyond  a  good  appetite.  The  landlord  approached  to 
receive  his  orders,  and  Renzo  made  him  accompany  him  into 
an  adjoining  room,  and  ordered  some  supper. 

*' Who  are  those  strangers?"  asked  he,  in  a  low  voice, 
when  his  host  returned  with  a  coarse  table-cloth  under  his 
arm,  and  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

"  I  don't  know  them,"  replied  the  host,  spreading  the  table- 
cloth. 

"What!  none  of  them?" 

"  You  know,"  replied  he,  again  smoothing  the  cloth  on 
the  table  with  both  his  hands,  *'  that  the  first  rule  of  our  busi- 
ness is  not  to  pry  into  other  people's  affairs;  so  that  even  our 
women  are  not  inquisitive.  It  would  be  hard  work,  with  the 
multitude  of  folk  that  come  and  go;  always  like  a  harbour — 
when  the  times  are  good,  I  mean ;  but  let  us  cheer  up  now,  for 
there  may  come  better  days.  All  we  care  for  is  whether  our 
customers  are  honest  fellows;  who  they  are  or  are  not,  be- 
yond that,  is  nothing  to  us.  But,  come!  I  will  bring  you  a 
dish  of  hash,  the  like  of  which  you've  never  tasted." 

"  How  do  you  know  .  .  .  .?"  Renzo  was  beginning;  but 
the  landlord,  already  on  his  way  to  the  kitchen,  paid  no  at- 
tention to  his  inquiry.  Here,  while  he  was  taking  up  the 
stewing-pan  in  which  was  the  above-mentioned  hash,  the 
bravo  who  had  eyed  our  youth  so  closely  accosted  the  host, 
and  said,  in  an  under-tone,  *'  Who  are  those  good  men?  " 

"  Worthy  people  of  the  village,"  replied  he,  pouring  the 
hash  into  the  dish. 

"Very  well;  but  what  are  they  called?  Who  are  they?" 
insisted  he,  in  a  sharp  tone. 


rjo  MANZONI 

"  One  is  called  Renzo,"  replied  the  host,  speaking  in  a 
low  voice;  ''a  worthy  youth  reckoned — a  silk  weaver,  who 
understands  his  business  well.  The  other  is  a  peasant  of  the 
name  of  Tonio,  a  good  jovial  comrade;  pity  he  has  so  little; 
he'd  spend  it  all  here.  The  third  is  a  simpleton,  who  eats  will- 
ingly whatever  is  set  before  him.     By  your  leave." 

With  these  words  and  a  slight  bow,  he  passed  between 
the  stove  and  the  interrogator,  and  carried  the  dish  into  the 
next  room.  ''  How  do  you  know,"  resumed  Renzo,  when  he 
saw  him  reappear,  ''  that  they  are  honest  men,  if  you  don't 
know  them?  " 

"  By  their  actions,  my  good  fellow — men  are  known  by 
their  actions.  Those  who  drink  wine  without  criticising  it; 
who  show  the  face  of  the  King  upon  the  counter  without  prat- 
ing; who  don't  quarrel  with  other  customers;  and  if  they  owe 
a  blow  to  any  one,  go  outside  and  away  from  the  inn  to  give  it, 
so  that  the  poor  landlord  isn't  brought  into  the  scrape — these 
are  honest  men.  However,  if  one  could  know  everybody  to 
be  honest,  as  we  four  know  one  another,  it  would  be  better. 
But  why  are  you  so  inquisitive  on  these  matters,  when  you  are 
a  bridegroom,  and  ought  to  have  other  things  in  your  head? 
and  with  this  hash  before  you,  enough  to  make  the  dead  rise 
again?"     So  saying,  he  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

Our  author,  remarking  upon  the  different  manner  in  which 
the  landlord  satisfied  these  various  inquiries,  says  he  was  one 
who  in  words  made  great  professions  of  friendship  for  honest 
men  in  general,  but  who  in  practice  paid  much  more  attention 
to  those  who  had  the  character  and  appearance  of  knaves. 
He  was,  as  every  one  must  perceive,  a  man  of  singular  char- 
acter. 

The  supper  was  not  very  blithesome.  The  two  invited 
guests  would  have  deliberately  enjoyed  the  unusual  gratifica- 
tion, but  the  inviter,  preoccupied  by — the  reader  knows  what 
— anxious  and  uneasy  at  the  strange  behaviour  of  these  in- 
cognitos, was  impatient  for  the  time  of  departure.  He  spoke 
in  an  undertone,  out  of  respect  to  the  strangers,  and  in  broken 
and  hurried  words. 

"  What  a  fine  thing,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Gervase,  '*  that 
Renzo  wants  to  marry,  and  is  obliged  .  .  .  . ! "  Renzo 
gave  him  a  savage  look,  and  Tonio  exclaimed,  "  Hold  your 
tongue,  simpleton!"  accompanying  the  epithet  with  a  knock 
of  his  elbow.  The  conversation  flagged  till  the  end  of  the 
meal.  Renzo,  observing  the  strictest  sobriety,  managed  to 
help  his  guests  with  so  much  discretion  as  to  inspire  them 
with  sufficient  boldness,  without  making  them  giddy  and  be- 


THE    BETROTHED 


97 


wildered.  Supper  being  over,  and  the  bill  having  been  paid 
by  the  one  who  had  done  the  least  execution,  they  had  again 
to  pass  under  the  scrutinizing  eyes  of  the  three  bravoes,  who 
gazed  earnestly  at  Renzo,  as  they  had  done  on  his  entrance. 
When  he  had  proceeded  a  few  paces  from  the  inn,  he  looked 
round,  and  saw  that  he  was  followed  by  the  two  bravoes 
whom  he  had  left  sitting  in  the  kitchen;  so  he  stood  still  with 
his  companions,  as  much  as  to  say,  '*  Let  us  see  what  these 
fellows  want  with  me."  On  perceiving,  however,  that  they 
were  observed,  they  also  stopped  short,  and  speaking  to  each 
other  in  a  suppressed  voice,  turned  back  again.  Had  Renzo 
been  near  enough  to  have  heard  their  words,  the  following 
would  have  struck  him  as  very  strange:  ''  It  will  be  a  fine 
thing,  however,  without  counting  the  drinking-money,"  said 
one  of  the  villains,  ''  if  we  can  relate,  on  our  return  to  the  pal- 
ace, that  we  made  them  lay  down  their  arms  in  a  hurry — by 
ourselves,  too,  without  Signor  Griso  here  to  give  orders !  " 

''And  spoil  the  principal  business!"  replied  the  other. 
**  See,  they've  discovered  something;  they  are  stopping  to 
look  at  us.  Oh,  I  wish  it  was  later!  Let  us  turn  back,  or 
they'll  surely  suspect  us!  Don't  you  see  people  are  coming 
in  every  direction?     Let  us  wait  till  they've  all  gone  to  bed." 

There  was,  in  fact,  that  stirring — that  confused  buzz — 
which  is  usually  heard  in  a  village  on  the  approach  of  evening, 
and  which  shortly  afterward  gives  place  to  the  solemn  still- 
ness of  night.  Women  arrived  from  the  fields,  carrying  their 
infants  on  their  backs,  and  holding  by  the  hand  the  elder  chil- 
dren, whom  they  were  hearing  repeat  their  evening  prayers; 
while  the  men  bore  on  their  shoulders  their  spades,  and  dif- 
ferent implements  of  husbandry.  On  the  opening  of  the  cot- 
tage doors,  a  bright  gleam  of  light  sparkled  from  the  fires, 
that  were  kindled  to  prepare  their  humble  evening  meal.  In 
the  street  might  be  heard  salutations  exchanged,  together  with 
brief  and  sad  remarks  on  the  scarcity  of  the  harvest,  and  the 
poverty  of  the  times;  while,  above  all,  resounded  the  meas- 
ured and  sonorous  tolls  of  the  bell,  which  announced  the  close 
of  day.  When  Renzo  saw^  that  Ixis  two  indiscreet  followers 
had  retired,  he  continued  his  way  amid  the  increasing  dark- 
ness, occasionally,  in  a  low  tone,  refreshing  the  memories  of 
one  or  other  of  the  brothers  on  some  point  of  their  duties 
they  might  be  likely  to  forget.  When  he  arrived  at  Lucia's 
cottage,  the  night  had  quite  closed  in. 

"Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing," 

says  a  foreign  writer,  Vv^ho  is  not  wanting  in  discernment, 
7 


98 


MANZONI 

"  And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma,  or  a  hideous  dream." 


Lucia  had  suffered  for  several  hours  the  horrors  of  such  a 
dream;  and  Agnese — Agnese  herself,  the  author  of  the  de- 
sign, was  buried  in  thought,  and  could  scarcely  find  words  to 
encourage  her  daughter.  But,  at  the  moment  of  awaking — 
at  the  moment  when  one  is  called  upon  to  begin  the  dreaded 
undertaking,  the  mind  is  instantly  transformed.  A  new  ter- 
ror and  a  new  courage  succeed  those  which  before  struggled 
within;  the  enterprise  presents  itself  to  the  mind  like  a 
fresh  apparition;  that  which,  at  first  sight,  was  most  dreaded, 
seems  sometimes  rendered  easy  in  a  moment;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  an  obstacle  which,  at  first,  was  scarcely  noticed, 
becomes  formidable;  the  imagination  shrinks  back  alarmed, 
the  limbs  refuse  to  fulfil  their  office,  and  the  heart  revokes 
the  promises  that  were  made  with  the  greatest  confidence.  At 
Renzo's  smothered  knock,  Lucia  was  seized  with  such  terror, 
that,  at  the  moment,  she  resolved  to  suffer  anything,  to  be 
separated  from  him  for  ever,  rather  than  execute  the  resolu- 
tions she  had  made;  but  when  he  had  stood  before  her,  and 
had  said,  "Here  I  am,  let  us  go";  when  all  were  ready  to 
accompany  him  without  hesitation,  as  a  fixed  and  irrevocable 
thing,  Lucia  had  neither  time  nor  heart  to  interpose  difficul- 
ties; and,  almost  dragged  along,  she  tremblingly  took  one 
arm  of  her  mother,  and  one  of  her  betrothed,  and  set  off  with 
the  venturesome  party. 

Very  softly,  in  the  dark,  and  with  slow  steps,  they  passed 
the  threshold,  and  took  the  road  that  led  out  of  the  village. 
The  shortest  way  would  have  been  to  have  gone  through  it, 
to  reach  Don  Abbondio's  house,  at  the  other  end;  but  they 
chose  the  longer  course,  as  being  the  most  retired.  After 
passing  along  little  narrow  roads  that  ran  between  gardens 
and  fields,  they  arrived  near  the  house,  and  here  they  divided. 
The  two  lovers  remained  hidden  behind  a  corner  of  the  build- 
ing; Agnese  was  with  them,  but  stood  a  little  forward,  that  she 
might  be  able  to  run  in  time  to  meet  Perpetua,  and  take  pos- 
session of  her.  Tonio,  with  his  blockhead  of  a  brother,  Ger- 
vase,  who  knew  how  to  do  nothing  by  himself,  and  without 
whom  nothing  could  be  done,  hastened  boldly  forward,  and 
knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Who's  there,  at  such  an  hour?  "  cried  a  voice  from  a 
window,  that  was  thrown  open  at  the  moment:  it  was  the 
voice  of  Perpetua.  "  There's  nobody  ill,  that  I  know  of. 
But,  perhaps,  some  accident  has  happened?  " 


THE   BETROTHED  99 

"  It  is  I,"  replied  Tonio,  "  with  my  brother;  we  want  to 
speak  to  the  Signor  Curate." 

**  Is  this  an  hour  for  Christians?  "  repHed  Perpetua,  sharp- 
ly.    "  You've  no  consideration.     Come  again  to-morrow." 

"Listen:  I'll  come  again,  or  not,  just  as  you  like;  I've 
scraped  together  nobody  knows  how  much  money,  and  came 
to  settle  that  little  debt  you  know  of.  Here,  I  had  five-and- 
twenty  fine  new  berlinghe;  but  if  one  can  not  pay,  never  mind, 
I  know  well  enough  how  to  spend  these,  and  I'll  come  again, 
when  I've  got  together  some  more." 

"  Wait,  wait!  I'll  go,  and  be  back  in  a  moment.  But  why 
come  at  such  an  hour? " 

"If  you  can  change  the  hour,  I've  no  objection;  as  for 
me,  here  I  am;  and  if  you  don't  want  me,  I'll  go." 

"  No,  no;  wait  a  moment;  I'll  be  back  with  the  answer 
directly." 

So  saying,  she  shut  the  window  again.  At  this  instant, 
Agnese  left  the  lovers,  and  saying,  in  a  low  voice,  to  Lucia, 
"  Courage!  it  is  but  a  moment;  it's  only  like  drawing  a  tooth," 
joined  the  two  brothers  at  the  door,  and  began  gossiping  with 
Tonio,  so  that,  when  Perpetua  should  return  and  see  her,  she 
might  think  she  was  just  passing  by,  and  that  Tonio  had  de- 
tained her  for  a  moment. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

CARNEADES!  who  was  he? — thought  Don  Abbondio 
to  himself,  as  he  sat  in  his  arm-chair,  in  a  room  up- 
stairs, with  a  small  volume  lying  open  before  him,  just 
as  Perpetua  entered  to  bring  him  the  message. — Car- 
neades!  I  seem  to  have  heard  or  read  this  name;  it  must  be 
some  man  of  learning — some  great  scholar  of  antiquity;  it  is 
just  like  one  of  their  names;  but  whoever  was  he? — So  far  was 
the  poor  man  from  foreseeing  the  storm  that  was  gathering 
over  his  head! 

The  reader  must  know  that  Don  Abbondio  was  very  fond 
of  reading  a  little  every  day;  and  a  neighbouring  curate,  who 
possessed  something  of  a  library,  lent  him  one  book  after  an- 
other, always  taking  the  first  that  came  to  hand.  The  work 
with  which  Don  Abbondio  Avas  now  engaged  (being  already 
convalescent,  after  his  fever  and  fears,  and  even  more  ad- 
vanced in  his  recovery  from  the  fever  than  he  wished  should 
be  believed)  was  a  panegyric  in  honour  of  San  Carlo,  which 
had  been  delivered  with  much  earnestness,  and  listened  to 
with  great  admiration,  in  the  cathedral  of  Milan,  two  years 
before.  The  saint  had  been  compared,  on  account  of  his 
love  of  study,  to  Archimedes;  and  so  far  Don  Abbondio  had 
met  with  no  stumbling-block;  because  Archimedes  has  exe- 
cuted such  great  works,  and  has  rendered  his  name  so  famous, 
that  it  required  no  very  vast  fund  of  erudition  to  know  some- 
thing about  him.  But  after  Archimedes,  the  orator  also  com- 
pares his  saint  to  Carneades,  and  here  the  reader  met  with  a 
check.     At  this  point,  Perpetua  announced  the  visit  of  Tonio. 

"  At  this  hour!  "  exclaimed  Don  Abbondio,  also,  naturally 
enough. 

*'  What  would  you  have,  sir?  They  have  no  consideration, 
indeed;  but  if  you  don't  take  him  when  you  can  get 
him  .  .  .  ." 

"  If  I  don't  take  him  now,  who  knows  when  I  can?  Let 
him  come  in  ...  .  Hey!  hey! — Perpetua,  are  you  quite  sure 
it  is  Tonio?  " 

"  Diavolo!  "  replied  Perpetua;  and  going  down-stairs,  she 

100 


THE   BETROTHED  lOi 

opened  the  door,  and  said,  "Where  are  you?"  Tonio  ad- 
vanced, and,  at  the  same  moment,  Agnese  also  showed  herself, 
and  saluted  Perpetua  by  name. 

"  Good  evening,  Agnese,"  said  Perpetua;  "  where  are  you 
coming  from  at  this  hour?  " 

*'  I  am  coming  from  .  .  .  ."  mentioning  a  neighbouring 
village.  "And  if  you  knew  .  .  .  ."  continued  she;  "I've 
been  kept  late  just  for  your  sake." 

"What  for?"  asked  Perpetua;  and  turning  to  the  two 
brothers,  "  Go  in,"  said  she,  "  and  I'll  follow." 

"  Because,"  replied  Agnese,  "  a  gossiping  woman,  who 
knows  nothing  about  the  matter  ....  would  you  believe  it? 
persists  in  saying  that  you  were  not  married  to  Beppo  Suola- 
vecchia,  nor  to  Anselmo  Lunghigna,  because  they  wouldn't 
have  you!  I  maintained  that  you  had  refused  both  one  and 
the  other." 

"To  be  sure.  Oh,  what  a  false-tongued  woman!  Who 
is  she?" 

"  Don't  ask  me;  I  don't  want  to  make  mischief." 

"  You  shall  tell  me;  you  must  tell  me.  I  say  she's  a  false 
body." 

"  Well,  well  ....  but  you  can  not  think  how  vexed  I 
was  that  I  didn't  know  the  whole  history,  that  I  might  have 
put  her  down." 

"  It  is  an  abominable  falsehood,"  said  Perpetua — "  a  most 
infamous  falsehood!  As  to  Beppo,  everybody  knows,  and 
might  have  seen  ....  Hey!  Tonio;  just  close  the  door, 
and  go  up-stairs  till  I  come." 

Tonio  assented  from  within,  and  Perpetua  continued  her 
eager  relation.  In  front  of  Don  Abbondio's  door,  a  narrow 
street  ran  between  two  cottages,  but  only  continued  straight 
the  length  of  the  buildings,  and  then  turned  into  the  fields. 
Agnese  went  forward  along  this  street,  as  if  she  would  go  a 
little  aside  to  speak  more  freely,  and  Perpetua  followed. 
When  they  had  turned  the  corner,  and  reached  a  spot  whence 
they  could  no  longer  see  what  happened  before  Don  Abbon- 
dio's house,  Agnese  coughed  loudly.  This  was  the  signal; 
Renzo  heard  it,  and  reanimating  Lucia  by  pressing  her  arm, 
they  turned  the  corner  together  on  tiptoe,  crept  very  softly 
close  along  the  wall,  reached  the  door,  and  gently  pushed  it 
open;  quiet,  and  stooping  low,  they  were  quickly  in  the  pas- 
sage; and  here  the  two  brothers  were  waiting  for  them. 
Renzo  very  gently  let  down  the  latch  of  the  door,  and  they  all 
four  ascended  the  stairs,  making  scarcely  noise  enough  for 
two.     On  reaching  the  landing,  the  two  brothers  advanced 


I02  MANZONI 

toward  the  door  of  the  room  at  the  side  of  the  staircase,  and 
the  lovers  stood  close  against  the  wall. 

'*  Deo  gratias,"  said  Tonio,  in  an  explanatory  tone. 

"Eh,  Tonio!  is  it  you?  Come  in!"  repHed  the  voice 
within. 

Tonio  opened  the  door,  scarcely  wide  enough  to  admit 
himself  and  his  brother  one  at  a  time.  The  ray  of  light  that 
suddenly  shone  through  the  opening,  and  crossed  the  dark 
floor  of  the  landing,  made  Lucia  tremble,  as  if  she  were  dis- 
covered. When  the  brothers  had  entered,  Tonio  closed  the 
door  inside;  the  lovers  stood  motionless  in  the  dark,  their 
ears  intently  on  the  alert,  and  holding  their  breath;  the  loud- 
est noise  was  the  beating  of  poor  Lucia's  heart. 

Don  Abbondio  was  seated,  as  we  have  said,  in  an  old 
arm-chair,  enveloped  in  an  antiquated  dressing-gown,  and  his 
head  buried  in  a  shabby  cap,  the  shape  of  a  tiara,  which,  by 
the  faint  light  of  a  small  lamp,  formed  a  sort  of  cornice  all 
round  his  face.  Two  thick  locks,  which  escaped  from  be- 
neath his  head-dress,  two  thick  eyebrows,  two  thick  musta- 
chios,  and  a  thick  tuft  on  the  chin,  all  of  them  grey,  and  scat- 
tered over  his  dark  and  wrinkled  visage,  might  be  compared 
to  bushes  covered  with  snow,  projecting  from  the  face  of  a  clifif, 
as  seen  by  moonlight. 

**Aha!"  was  his  salutation,  as  he  took  off  his  spectacles, 
and  laid  them  on  his  book. 

*'  The  Signor  Curate  will  say  I  am  come  very  late,"  said 
Tonio,  with  a  low  bow,  which  Gervase  awkwardly  imitated. 

"  Certainly,  it  is  late — late  every  way.  Don't  you  know 
I  am  ill?" 

"  I'm  very  sorry  for  it." 

"  You  must  have  heard  I  was  ill,  and  didn't  know  when 
I  should  be  able  to  see  anybody.  But  why  have  you  brought 
this — this  boy  with  you?" 

"  For  company,  Signor  Curate." 

"Very  well;  let  us  see." 

"  Here  are  twenty-five  new  berlinghe,  with  the  figure  of 
Saint  Ambrose  on  horseback,"  said  Tonio,  drawing  a  little 
parcel  out  of  his  pocket. 

"  Let  us  see,"  said  Don  Abbondio;  and  he  took  the  parcel, 
put  on  his  spectacles  again,  opened  it,  took  out  the  berlinghe, 
turned  them  over  and  over,  counted  them,  and  found  them 
irreprehensible. 

"  Now,  Signor  Curate,  you  will  give  me  Tecla's  necklace." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  Don  Abbondio;  and  going  to 
a  cupboard,  he  took  out  a  key,  looking  round  as  if  to  see  that 


THE    BETROTHED 


103 


all  prying  spectators  were  at  a  proper  distance,  opened  one  of 
the  doors,  and  filling  up  the  aperture  with  his  person,  intro- 
duced his  head  to  see,  and  his  arm  to  reach,  the  pledge;  then, 
drawing  it  out,  he  shut  the  cupboard,  unwrapped  the  paper, 
and  saying,  '*  Is  that  right?  "  folded  it  up  again,  and  handed  it 
to  Tonio. 

'*  Now,"  said  Tonio,  '*  vvill  you  please  to  put  it  in  black 
and  white?  " 

'*  Not  satisfied  yet!"  said  Don  Abbondio.  "I  declare 
they  know  everything.  Eh!  how  suspicious  the  world  has 
become!     Don't  you  trust  me?" 

"What!  Signor  Curate!  Don't  I  trust  you?  You  do 
me  wrong.  But  as  my  name  is  in  your  black  books,  on  the 
debtor's  side  ....  then,  since  you  have  had  the  trouble  of 
writing  once,  so  ...  .  from  life  to  death  .  .  .  ." 

"Well,  well,"  interrupted  Don  Abbondio;  and  muttering 
between  his  teeth,  he  drew  out  one  of  the  table  drawers,  took 
thence  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  began  to  write,  repeating  the 
words  aloud,  as  they  proceeded  from  his  pen.  In  the  mean 
time,  Tonio,  and  at  his  side,  Gervase,  placed  themselves  stand- 
ing before  the  table  in  such  a  manner  as  to  conceal  the  door 
from  the  view  of  the  writer,  and  began  to  shuffle  their  feet 
about  on  the  floor,  as  if  in  mere  idleness,  but,  in  reality,  as  a 
signal  to  those  without  to  enter,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
drown  the  noise  of  their  footsteps.  Don  Abbondio,  intent 
upon  his  writing,  noticed  nothing  else.  At  the  noise  of  their 
feet,  Renzo  took  Lucia's  arm,  pressing  it  in  an  encouraging 
manner,  and  went  forward,  almost  dragging  her  along;  for 
she  trembled  to  such  a  degree,  that,  without  his  help,  she  must 
have  sunk  to  the  ground.  Entering  very  softly,  on  tiptoe, 
and  holding  their  breath,  they  placed  themselves  behind  the 
two  brothers.  In  the  mean  time,  Don  Abbondio,  having  fin- 
ished writing,  read  over  the  paper  attentively,  without  raising 
his  eyes;  he  then  folded  it  up,  saying,  "Are  you  content 
now?  "  and  taking  oflf  his  spectacles  with  one  hand,  handed 
the  paper  to  Tonio  with  the  other,  and  looked  up.  Tonio,  ex- 
tending his  right  hand  to  receive  it,  retired  on  one  side,  and 
Gervase,  at  a  sign  from  him,  on  the  other;  and  behold!  as  at 
the  shifting  of  a  scene,  Renzo  and  Lucia  stood  between  them. 
Don  Abbondio  saw  indistinctly — saw  clearly — was  terrified, 
astonished,  enraged,  buried  in  thought,  came  to  a  resolu- 
tion; and  all  this,  while  Renzo  uttered  the  words,  "Signor 
Curate,  in  the  presence  of  these  witnesses,  this  is  my  wife." 
Before,  however,  Lucia's  lips  could  form  the  reply,  Don  Ab- 
bondio dropped  the  receipt,  seized  the  lamp  with  his  left  hand, 


104 


MANZONI 


and  raised  it  in  the  air,  caught  hold  of  the  cloth  with  his  right, 
and  dragged  it  furiously  ofif  the  table,  bringing  to  the  ground  in 
its  fall,  book,  paper,  inkstand,  and  sandbox;  and,  springing 
between  the  chair  and  the  table,  advanced  toward  Lucia. 
The  poor  girl,  with  her  sweet  gentle  voice,  trembling  violently, 
had  scarcely  uttered  the  words,  "  And  this  .  .  .  ."  when  Don 
Abbondio  threw  the  cloth  rudely  over  her  head  and  face,  to 
prevent  her  pronouncing  the  entire  formula.  Then,  letting 
the  light  fall  from  his  other  hand,  he  employed  both  to  wrap 
the  cloth  round  her  face,  till  she  was  well  nigh  smothered, 
shouting  in  the  mean  while,  at  the  stretch  of  his  voice,  like  a 
wounded  bull:  "Perpetual — Perpetual — treachery — help!" 
The  light,  just  glimmering  on  the  ground,  threw  a  dim  and 
flickering  ray  upon  Lucia,  who,  in  utter  consternation,  made 
no  attempt  to  disengage  herself,  and  might  be  compared  to  a 
statue  sculptured  in  chalk,  over  which  the  artificer  had  thrown 
a  wet  cloth.  When  the  light  died  away,  Don  Abbondio  quit- 
ted the  poor  girl,  and  went  groping  about  to  find  the  door 
that  opened  into  an  inner  room;  and  having  reached  it,  he  en- 
tered and  shut  himself  in,  unceasingly  exclaiming:  "  Perpetual 
treachery,  help!     Out  of  the  house!  out  of  the  house!  " 

In  the  other  room  all  was  confusion:  Renzo,  seeking  to 
lay  hold  of  the  curate,  and  feeling  with  his  hands,  as  if  play- 
ing at  blind-man's-bufif,  had  reached  the  door,  and  kicking 
against  it,  was  crying:  "  Open,  open;  don't  make  such  a 
noise!"  Lucia,  calling  to  Renzo,  in  a  feeble  voice,  said,  be- 
seechingly, "  Let  us  go,  let  us  go,  for  God's  sake!  "  Tonio  was 
crawling  on  his  knees,  and  feeling  with  his  hands  on  the 
ground  to  recover  his  lost  receipt.  The  terrified  Gervase  was 
crying  and  jumping  about,  and  seeking  for  the  door  of  the 
stairs,  so  as  to  make  his  escape  in  safety. 

In  the  midst  of  this  uproar,  we  can  not  but  stop  a  moment 
to  make  a  reflection.  Renzo,  who  was  causing  disturbance  at 
night  in  another  person's  house,  who  had  effected  an  entrance 
by  stealth,  and  who  had  blockaded  the  master  himself  in  one 
of  his  own  rooms,  has  all  the  appearance  of  an  oppressor; 
while  in  fact  he  was  the  oppressed.  Don  Abbondio,  taken  by 
surprise,  terrified  and  put  to  flight,  while  peaceably  engaged 
in  his  own  affairs,  appears  the  victim;  when  in  reality  it  was 
he  who  did  the  wrong.  Thus  frequently  goes  the  world, 
or  rather,  we  should  say,  thus  it  went  in  the  seventeenth 
century. 

The  besieged,  finding  that  the  enemy  gave  no  signs  of 
abandoning  the  enterprise,  opened  a  window  that  looked  into 
the   churchyard,    and    shouted   out:    ''Help!    help!"     There 


THE   BETROTHED  I05 

was  a  most  lovely  moon;  the  shadow  of  the  church,  and,  a 
little  beyond,  the  long,  sharp  shadow  of  the  bell-tower,  lay 
dark,  still,  and  well-defined,  on  the  bright  grassy  level  of  the 
sacred  enclosure:  all  objects  were  visible,  almost  as  by  day. 
But  look  which  way  you  would,  there  appeared  no  sign  of 
living  person.  Adjoining  the  lateral  wall  of  the  church,  on 
the  side  next  the  parsonage,  was  a  small  dwelling  where  the 
sexton  slept.  Aroused  by  this  tmusual  cry,  he  sprang  up  in 
his  bed,  jumped  out  in  great  haste,  threw  open  the  sash  of  his 
little  window,  put  his  head  out  with  his  eyelids  glued  to- 
gether all  the  while,  and  cried  out,  "  What's  the  matter?  " 

"Run,  Ambrogio!  help!  people  in  the  house!"  answered 
Don  Abbondio.  "  Coming  directly,"  replied  he,  as  he  drew 
in  his  head  and  shut  the  window;  and  although  half  asleep  and 
more  than  half  terrified,  an  expedient  quickly  occurred  to  him 
that  would  bring  more  aid  than  had  been  asked,  without  drag- 
ging hwi  into  the  afYray,  whatever  it  might  be.  Seizing  his 
breeches  that  lay  upon  the  bed,  he  tucked  them  under  his  arm 
like  a  gala  hat,  and  bounding  down-stairs  by  a  little  wooden 
ladder,  ran  to  the  belfry,  caught  hold  of  the  rope  that  was  at- 
tached to  the  larger  of  the  two  bells,  and  pulled  vigorously. 

Ton,  ton,  ton,  ton;  the  peasant  sprang  up  in  his  bed;  the 
boy  stretched  in  the  hay-loft  listened  eagerly,  and  leapt  upon 
his  feet.  "  What's  the  matter?  what's  the  matter?  The  bell's 
ringing!  Fire?  Thieves?  Banditti?"  Many  of  the  women 
advised — begged  their  husbands  not  to  stir — to  let  others  run; 
some  got  up  and  went  to  the  window;  those  who  were  cow- 
ards, as  if  yielding  to  entreaty,  quietly  slipped  under  the  bed- 
clothes again;  while  the  more  inquisitive  and  courageous 
sprang  up  and  armed  themselves  with  pitchforks  and  pistols, 
to  run  to  the  uproar;  others  waited  to  see  the  end. 

But  before  these  were  all  ready,  and  even  before  they  were 
well  awake,  the  noise  had  reached  the  ears,  and  arrested  the 
attention,  of  some  others  not  very  far  distant,  who  were  both 
dressed  and  on  their  feet;  the  bravoes  in  one  place;  Agnese 
and  Perpetua  in  another.  We  will  first  briefly  relate  the 
movements  of  the  bravoes  since  we  left  them — some  in  the  old 
building,  and  some  at  the  inn. 

The  three  at  the  inn,  as  soon  as  they  saw  all  the  doors  shut 
and  the  street  deserted,  went  out,  pretending  to  be  going 
some  distance;  but  they  only  quietly  took  a  short  turn  in  the  vil- 
lage to  be  assured  that  all  had  retired  to  rest;  and  in  fact,  they 
met  not  one  living  creature,  nor  heard  the  least  noise.  They 
also  passed,  still  more  softly,  before  Lucia's  little  cottage,  which 
was  the  quietest  of  all,  since  there  was  no  one  within.     They 


I06  MANZONI 

then  went  direct  to  the  old  house,  and  reported  their  observa- 
tions to  Signor  Griso.  Hastily  putting  on  a  slouched  hat, 
with  a  pilgrim's  dress  of  sackcloth,  scattered  over  with  cockle- 
shells, and  taking  in  his  hand  a  pilgrim's  staff,  he  said:  *'  Now 
let  us  act  like  good  bravoes;  quiet,  and  attentive  to  orders." 
So  saying,  he  moved  forward,  followed  by  the  rest,  and  in  a 
few  moments  reached  the  cottage  by  the  opposite  way  to  the 
one  our  little  party  had  taken  when  setting  out  on  their  ex- 
pedition. Griso  ordered  his  followers  to  remain  a  few  paces 
behind,  while  he  went  forward  alone  to  explore;  and  finding 
all  outside  deserted  and  still,  he  beckoned  to  two  of  them  to 
advance,  ordered  them  quietly  to  scale  the  wall  that  surround- 
ed the  court-yard,  and  when  they  had  descended,  to  conceal 
themselves  in  a  corner  behind  a  thick  fig-tree  that  he  had  no- 
ticed in  the  morning.  This  done,  he  knocked  gently  at  the 
door,  with  the  intention  of  saying  that  he  was  a  pilgrim  who 
had  lost  his  way,  and  begged  a  lodging  for  the  night.  No  one 
replied;  he  knocked  a  little  more  loudly;  not  a  whisper.  He 
therefore  called  a  third  bravo,  and  made  him  descend  into 
the  yard  as  the  other  two  had  done,  with  orders  to  unfasten 
the  bolt  inside  very  carefully,  so  that  he  might  have  free  in- 
gress and  egress.  All  was  executed  with  the  greatest  caution 
and  the  most  prosperous  success.  He  then  went  to  call  the 
rest,  and  bidding  them  enter  with  him,  sent  them  to  hide 
in  the  corner  with  the  others,  closed  the  door  again  very 
softly,  placed  two  sentinels  inside,  and  went  up  to  the  door  of 
the  house.  Here  also  he  knocked — waited;  and  long  enough 
he  might  wait.  He  then  as  gently  as  possible  opened  this 
door;  nobody  within  said,  "  Who's  there?"  no  one  was  to  be 
heard.  Nothing  could  be  better.  Forward  then:  ''Come 
on,"  cried  he  to  those  behind  the  fig-tree,  and  he  entered  with 
them  into  that  very  room  where  in  the  morning  he  had  so 
basely  obtained  the  piece  of  bread.  Drawing  from  his  pocket 
a  piece  of  steel,  a  flint,  some  tinder  and  a  few  matches,  he  lit 
a  small  lantern  he  had  provided,  and  stepped  into  the  next 
room  to  assure  himself  that  all  was  quiet:  no  one  was  there. 
He  returned,  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  looked  up,  listened; 
all  was  solitude  and  silence.  Leaving  two  more  sentinels  in 
the  lower  room,  he  bid  Grignapoco  follow  him,  a  bravo  from 
the  district  of  Bergamo,  whose  ofBce  it  was  to  threaten,  ap- 
pease, and  command;  to  be, in  short,  the  spokesman, so  that  his 
dialect  might  give  Agnese  the  idea  that  the  expedition  came 
from  his  neighbourhood.  With  this  companion  at  his  side, 
and  the  rest  behind  him,  Griso  very  slowly  ascended  the  stairs, 
cursing  in  his  heart  every  step  that  unluckily  creaked,  every 


THE   BETROTHED 


107 


tread  of  these  villains  that  made  the  least  noise.  At  last  he 
reaches  the  top.  Here  is  the  danger.  He  gently  pushes  the 
door  that  leads  into  the  first  room;  it  yields  to  his  touch;  he 
opens  it  a  little  and  looks  in;  all  is  dark;  he  listens  attentively, 
perchance  he  may  hear  a  snoring,  a  breath,  a  stirring  within; 
nothing.  Forward  then;  he  puts  the  lantern  before  his  face, 
so  as  to  see  without  being  seen,  he  opens  the  door  wide;  per- 
ceives a  bed;  looks  upon  it;  the  bed  is  made  and  smooth,  with 
the  clothes  turned  down  and  arranged  upon  the  pillow.  He 
shrugs  his  shoulders,  turns  to  his  companions,  beckons  to 
them  that  he  is  going  to  look  in  the  other  room,  and  that  they 
must  keep  quiet  where  they  were;  he  goes  forward,  uses  the 
same  precautions,  meets  with  the  same  success.  '*  Whatever 
can  this  mean?"  exclaimed  he  boldly:  "  some  traitorous  dog 
must  have  been  acting  as  spy."  They  then  began  to  look 
about  them  with  less  caution,  and  to  pry  into  every  corner, 
turning  the  house  upside  down. 

While  the  party  up-stairs  were  thus  engaged,  the  two  who 
were  on  guard  at  the  street-door  heard  hasty  and  repeated 
footsteps  approaching  along  the  road  that  led  into  the  village, 
and  imagining  that  whoever  it  was,  he  would  pass  by,  they 
kept  quiet,  their  ears,  however,  attentively  on  the  watch.  But 
behold!  the  footsteps  stopped  exactly  at  the  door.  It  was 
Menico  arriving  in  great  haste,  sent  by  Father  Cristoforo  to 
bid  the  two  women,  for  Heaven's  sake,  to  make  their  escape 
as  quickly  as  possible  from  their  cottage,  and  take  refuge  in 
the  convent,  because  ....  the  ''  because  "  the  reader  knows. 
He  took  hold  of  the  handle  of  the  latch,  and  felt  it  shake  in  his 
hand,  unfastened  and  broken  open.  What  is  this?  thought 
he,  as  he  pushed  open  the  door  in  some  alarm;  and  putting 
one  foot  inside  with  considerable  suspicion,  he  felt  himself 
seized  in  a  moment  by  both  arms,  and  heard  two  smothered 
voices,  on  his  right  and  left,  saying  to  him,  in  a  threatening 
tone:  *'  Hush!  hold  your  tongue,  or  you  die."  On  the  con- 
trary, however,  he  uttered  a  shrill  cry,  upon  which  one  of 
them  struck  him  a  great  blow  on  the  mouth,  and  the  other 
took  hold  of  a  large  knife  to  terrify  him.  The  poor  child 
trembled  like  a  leaf,  and  did  not  attempt  a  second  cry;  but  all 
at  once,  in  his  stead,  and  with  a  far  different  tone,  burst  forth 
the  first  sound  of  the  bell  before  described,  and  immediately 
after  many  thundering  peals  in  quick  succession.  "  If  the  cap 
fits,  put  it  on,"  says  a  Milanese  proverb:  each  of  the  villains 
seemed  to  hear  in  these  peals  his  name,  surname,  and  nick- 
name; they  let  go  of  Menico's  arms,  hastily  dropped  their 
own,  gazed  at  each  other's  faces  in  mute  astonishment,  and 


jo8  MANZONI 

then  ran  into  the  house  where  was  the  bulk  of  their  compan- 
ions. Menico  took  to  his  legs,  and  fled,  by  way  of  the  fields, 
toward  the  belfry,  where  he  felt  sure  there  would  be  some  peo- 
ple assembled.  On  the  other  ruffians,  who  were  rummaging 
the  house  from  top  to  bottom,  the  terrible  bell  made  the  same 
impression;  confused  and  alarmed,  they  ran  against  one  an- 
other, in  attempting,  each  one  for  himself,  to  find  the  shortest 
way  of  reaching  the  street-door.  Though  men  of  approved 
courage,  and  accustomed  never  to  turn  their  backs  on  known 
peril,  they  could  not  stand  against  an  indefinite  danger,  which 
had  not  been  viewed  at  a  little  distance  before  coming  upon 
them.  It  required  all  the  authority  of  Griso  to  keep  them  to- 
gether, so  that  it  might  be  a  retreat  and  not  a  flight.  Just  as 
a  dog  urging  a  drove  of  pigs  runs  here  and  there  after  those 
that  break  the  ranks,  seizes  one  by  the  ears,  and  drags  him 
into  the  herd,  propels  another  with  his  nose,  barks  at  a  third 
that  leaves  the  line  at  the  same  moment,  so  the  pilgrim  laid 
hold  of  one  of  his  troop  just  passing  the  threshold,  and  drew 
him  back,  detained  with  his  staff  others  who  had  almost 
reached  it,  called  after  some  who  were  flying  they  knew  not 
whither,  and  finally  succeeded  in  assembling  them  all  in  the 
middle  of  the  court-yard.  *'  Halt!  halt!  pistols  in  hand,  dag- 
gers in  readiness,  all  together,  and  then  we'll  begone.  We 
must  march  in  order.  What  care  we  for  the  bells  ringing,  if 
we  are  all  together,  you  cowards?  But  if  we  let  them  catch 
us  one  by  one,  even  the  villagers  will  give  us  it.  For  shame! 
Fall  behind,  and  keep  together."  After  this  brief  harangue, 
he  placed  himself  in  front,  and  led  the  way  out.  The  cottage, 
as  we  have  said,  was  at  the  extremity  of  the  village:  Griso 
took  the  road  that  led  out  of  it,  and  the  rest  followed  him  in 
good  order. 

We  will  let  them  go,  and  return  a  step  or  two  to  find 
Agnese  and  Perpetua,  whom  we  had  just  conducted  round 
the  corner  of  a  certain  road.  Agnese  had  endeavoured  to  al- 
lure her  companion  as  far  away  from  Don  Abbondio's  house 
as  possible,  and  up  to  a  certain  point  had  succeeded  very  well. 
But  all  on  a  sudden  the  servant  remembered  that  she  had  left 
the  door  open,  and  she  w^anted  to  go  back.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  be  said:  Agnese,  to  avoid  exciting  any  suspicion  in  her 
mind,  was  obliged  to  turn  and  walk  with  her,  trying,  however, 
to  detain  her  whenever  she  saw  her  very  eager  in  relating  the 
issue  of  such  and  such  courtships.  She  pretended  to  be  pay- 
ing very  great  attention,  and  every  now  and  then,  by  way  of 
showing  that  she  was  listening;-,  or  to  animate  the  flagging 
conversation,    would    say:    ''Certainly:  now    I    understand: 


THE   BETROTHED  lof 

that  was  capital:  that  is  plain:  and  then?  and  he?  and  you?" 
while  all  the  time  she  was  keeping  up  a  very  different  dis- 
course in  her  own  mind. — "  I  wonder  if  they  are  out  by  this 
time?  or  will  they  still  be  in  the  house?  What  geese  we  all 
were  not  to  arrange  any  signal  to  let  me  know  when  it  was 
over!  It  was  really  very  stupid!  But  it  can't  be  helped:  and 
the  best  thing  I  can  do  now  is  to  keep  her  loitering  here  as 
long  as  I  can:  let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  it  will  only  be 
a  little  time  lost." — Thus,  with  sundry  pauses  and  various 
deviations  from  the  straight  path,  they  were  brought  back 
again  to  within  a  very  short  distance  from  Don  Abbondio's 
house,  which,  however,  could  not  be  seen  on  account  of  the 
corner  intercepting  the  view,  and  Perpetua  finding  herself  at 
an  important  part  of  her  narration,  had  suffered  herself  to  be 
detained  without  resistance,  and  even  without  being  aware  of 
it,  when  they  suddenly  heard,  echoing  through  the  vacant  ex- 
tent of  the  atmosphere,  and  the  dead  silence  of  night,  the 
loud  and  disordered  cry  of  Don  Abbondio:  "  Help!  help!  " 

"Mercy!  wdiat  has  happened?"  cried  Perpetua,  begin- 
ning to  run. 

"  What  is  it?  what  is  it?"  cried  Agncse,  holding  her  back 
by  the  gown. 

"Mercy!  didn't  you  hear?"  replied  she,  struggling. 

"  What  is  it?  what  is  it?  "  repeated  Agnese,  seizing  her  by 
the  arm. 

"  Wretch  of  a  woman !  "  exclaimed  Perpetua,  pushing  her 
away  to  free  herself  and  to  run.  At  this  moment,  more  dis- 
tant, more  shrill,  more  instantaneous,  was  heard  the  scream 
of  Menico. 

"Mercy!"  cried  Agnese  also;  and  they  ran  off  together. 
They  had  scarcely,  however,  gone  a  step,  when  the  bell  sound- 
ed one  stroke,  then  two,  three,  and  a  succession  of  peals, 
such  as  would  have  stimulated  them  to  run  had  there  been  no 
other  inducement.  Perpetua  arrived  first  by  two  steps ;  while 
she  raised  her  hand  to  the  door  to  open  it,  behold!  it  was 
opened  from  within,  and  on  the  threshold  stood  Tonio,  Ger- 
vase,  Renzo,  and  Lucia,  who,  having  found  the  stairs,  had 
come  down  more  rapidly  than  they  went  up;  and  at  the  sound 
of  that  terrible  bell,  were  making  their  escape  in  haste  to  reach 
a  place  of  safety. 

"  What's  the  matter?  what's  the  matter?  "  demanded  the 
panting  Perpetua  of  the  brothers;  but  they  only  replied  with 
a  violent  push,  and  passed  on.  "And  you!  How!  what  are 
you  doing  here?  "  said  she  to  the  other  couple  on  recognizing 
them.     But  they  too  made  their  escape  without  answering  her. 


Jlo  MANZONI 

Without,  therefore,  asking  any  more  questions,  and  directing 
her  steps  where  she  was  most  wanted,  she  rushed  impetuously 
into  the  passage,  and  went  groping  about  as  quickly  as  she 
could  to  find  the  stairs. 

The  betrothed,  still  only  betrothed,  now  fell  in  with  Ag- 
nese,  who  arrived  weary  and  out  of  breath.  *'Ah!  here 
you  are!"  said  she,  scarcely  able  to  speak.  **  How  has  it 
gone?  What  is  the  bell  ringing  for?  I  thought  I 
heard  .  .  .  ." 

"Home!  home!"  cried  Renzo,  "before  anybody  comes." 
And  they  moved  forward;  but  at  this  moment  Menico  arrived, 
running  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him;  and  recognizing 
them,  he  threw  himself  in  their  way,  and  still  all  in  a  tremble 
and  scarcely  able  to  draw  his  breath,  exclaimed :  "  Where  are 
you  going?  back,  back!     This  way,  to  the  convent." 

"Are  you?  .  .  .  ."  began  Agnese. 

*^  What  is  it?  "  asked  Renzo.  Lucia  stood  by,  trembling 
and  silent,  in  utter  dismay. 

"  There  are  devils  in  your  house,"  replied  Menico,  pant- 
ing. "  I  saw  them  myself:  they  wanted  to  murder  me;  Fa- 
ther Cristoforo  said  so;  and  even  you,  Renzo,  he  said,  were 
to  come  quickly — and  besides,  I  saw  them  myself — it's  provi- 
dential you  are  all  here — I  will  tell  you  the  rest  when  we  get 
out  of  the  village." 

Renzo,  who  had  more  of  his  senses  about  him  than  the 
rest,  remembered  that  they  had  better  make  their  escape  one 
way  or  another  before  the  crowds  assembled;  and  that  the 
best  plan  would  be  to  do  as  Menico  advised,  nay,  commanded 
with  the  authority  of  one  in  terror.  When  once  on  their  way, 
and  out  of  the  tumult  and  danger,  he  could  ask  a  clearer  ex- 
planation from  the  boy.  "  Lead  the  way,"  said  he  to  Menico; 
and  addressing  the  women,  said,  "  Let  us  go  with  him."  They 
therefore  quickly  turned  their  steps  toward  the  church,  crossed 
the  churchyard,  where,  by  the  favour  of  Heaven,  there  was 
not  yet  a  living  creature,  entered  a  little  street  that  ran  be- 
tween the  church  and  Don  Abbondio's  house,  turned  into  the 
first  alley  they  came  to,  and  then  took  the  way  of  the  fields. 

They  had  not  gone  over  fifty  yards,  when  the  crowd  be- 
gan to  collect  in  the  churchyard,  and  rapidly  increased  every 
moment.  They  looked  inquiringly  in  each  other's  faces; 
every  one  had  a  question  to  ask,  but  no  one  could  return  an 
answer.  Those  who  arrived  first,  ran  to  the  church-door:  it 
was  locked.  They  then  ran  to  the  belfry  outside;  and  one  of 
them,  putting  his  mouth  to  a  very  small  window,  a  sort  of 
loop-hole,  cried,   "  Whatever  is  the  matter? "     As   soon  as 


THE   BETROTHED  1 1  fl 

Ambrogio  recognized  a  known  voice,  he  let  go  of  the  bell- 
rope,  and  being  assured  by  the  buzz  that  many  people  had  as- 
sembled, replied,  "  I'll  open  the  door."  Hastily  slipping  on 
the  apparel  he  had  carried  under  his  arm,  he  went  inside  the 
church,  and  opened  the  door. 

"What  is  all  this  hubbub? — What  is  it? — Where  is  it?— 
Who  is  it?" 

''Why,  who  is  it?"  said  Ambrogio,  laying  one  hand  on 
the  door-post,  and  with  the  other  holding  up  the  habiliment 
he  had  put  on  in  such  haste:  ''  What!  don't  you  know?  Peo- 
ple in  the  Signor  Curate's  house.  Up,  boys:  help!"  Hear- 
ing this,  they  all  turned  to  the  house,  looked  up,  approached 
it  in  a  body,  looked  up  again,  listened:  all  was  quiet.  Some 
ran  to  the  street-door;  it  was  shut  and  bolted;  they  glanced 
upward;  not  a  window  was  open;  not  a  whisper  was  to  be 
heard. 

"Who  is  within? — Ho!  Hey! — Signor  Curate! — Signor 
Curate!" 

Don  Abbondio,  who,  scarcely  aware  of  the  flight  of  the 
invaders,  had  retired  from  the  window,  and  closed  it,  and  who 
at  this  moment  was  reproaching  Perpetua  in  a  low  voice  for 
having  left  him  alone  in  this  confusion,  was  obliged,  when  he 
heard  himself  called  upon  by  the  voice  of  the  assembled  peo- 
ple, to  show  himself  again  at  the  window;  and  when  he  saw 
the  crowds  that  had  come  to  his  aid,  he  sorely  repented  hav- 
ing called  them. 

"  What  has  happened? — What  have  they  done  to  you? — 
Who  are  they? — Where  are  they?"  burst  forth  from  fifty 
voices  at  once. 

"There's  nobody  here  now;  thank  you:  go  home  again." 

"  But  who  has  been  here? — Where  are  they  gone? — What 
has  happened?  " 

"  Bad  people,  people  who  go  about  by  night;  but  they're 
gone:  go  home  again:  there  is  no  longer  anything:  another 
time,  my  children:  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  me." 
So  saying,  he  drew  back,  and  shut  the  window.  Some  of  the 
crowd  began  to  grumble,  some  to  joke,  others  to  curse;  some 
shrugged  their  shoulders  and  took  their  departure:  when  one 
arrived,  endeavouring,  but  scarcely  able  to  speak  from  want 
of  breath.  It  was  the  person  who  lived  in  the  house  opposite 
Agnese's  cottage,  who  having  gone  to  the  window  at  the 
noise,  had  seen  in  the  court-yard  the  assembly  of  bravoes, 
when  Griso  was  striving  to  reunite  his  scattered  troops.  On 
recovering  his  breath,  he  cried:  "What  are  you  doing  here, 
my  good  fellows?  the  devil  isn't  here;  he's  down  at  the  end  of 


Tl2  MANZONI 

the  village,  at  Agnese  Mondella's  house;  armed  men  are  with- 
in, who  seem  to  be  murdering  a  pilgrim;  who  knows  what 
the  devil  is  doing!  " 

"  What? — what? — what?  "  and  a  tumultuous  consultation 
began.  "  We  must  go. — We  must  see. — How  many  are 
there? — How  many  are  we? — Who  are  we? — The  constable! 
the  constable!  " 

''  I'm  here,"  replied  the  constable  from  the  middle  of  the 
crowd:  "  I'm  here;  but  you  must  help  me,  you  must  obey. 
Quick:  where  is  the  sexton?  To  the  bell,  to  the  bell.  Quick! 
Somebody  to  run  to  Lecco  for  help:  all  of  you  come 
here  .  .  .  ." 

Some  ran,  some  slipped  between  their  fellows  and  made 
their  escape;  and  the  tumult  was  at  its  greatest  height,  when 
another  runner  arrived  who  had  seen  Griso  and  his  party  go- 
ing off  in  such  haste,  and  cried  in  his  turn:  ''  Run,  my  good 
fellows:  thieves  or  banditti,  who  are  carrying  off  a  pilgrim: 
they  are  already  out  of  the  village.  On!  after  them!"  At 
this  information,  they  moved  off  in  a  body  in  great  confusion 
toward  the  fields,  without  waiting  their  general's  orders,  and 
as  the  crowd  proceeded,  many  of  the  vanguard  slackened  their 
pace,  to  let  the  others  advance,  and  retired  into  the  body  of 
the  battalion,  those  in  the  rear  pushing  eagerly  forw^ard,  until 
at  last  the  disorderly  multitude  reached  their  place  of  destina- 
tion. Traces  of  the  recent  invasion  were  manifest:  the  door 
opened,  the  locks  torn  off;  but  the  invaders  had  disappeared. 
The  crowd  entered  the  court-yard,  and  went  to  the  room 
door;  this,  too,  was  burst  open:  they  called:  ''Agnese!  Lu- 
cia! the  pilgrim!  Where  is  the  pilgrim?  Stefano  must  have 
been  dreaming  about  the  pilgrim. — No,  no:  Carlandrea 
saw  him  also.  Ho!  hey!  pilgrim! — Agnese!  Lucia!"  No 
one  replied.  ''They've  run  away  with  them!  They've  run 
away  with  them!"  There  were  then  some  who  raised  their 
voices  and  proposed  to  follow  the  robbers;  said  it  was  a  hei- 
nous crime,  and  that  it  would  be  a  disgrace  to  the  village,  if 
every  villain  could  come  and  carry  off  women  with  impunity, 
as  a  kite  carries  off  chickens  from  a  deserted  barn-floor. 
Then  rose  a  fresh  and  more  tumultuous  consultation;  but 
somebody  (and  it  was  never  certainly  known  who)  called 
out  in  the  crowd  that  Agnese  and  Lucia  were  in  safety  in 
a  house.  The  rumour  spread  rapidly;  it  gained  belief,  and 
no  one  spoke  again  of  giving  chase  to  the  fugitives;  the 
multitude  dispersed,  and  every  one  went  to  his  own  house. 
There  was  a  general  whispering,  a  noise,  all  over  the  vil- 
lage, a  knocking  and  opening  of  doors,  an  appearing  and 


THE   BETROTHED 


113 


disappearing  of  lights,  a  questioning  of  women  from  the 
windows,  an  answering  from  the  streets.  When  all  outside 
was  deserted  and  quiet,  the  conversation  continued  in  the 
houses,  and  ended  at  last  in  slumber,  only  to  be  renewed  on 
the  morrow.  However,  no  other  events  took  place,  except- 
ing that  on  the  morning  of  that  morrow,  the  constable  was 
standing  in  his  field,  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hands,  his 
hands  on  the  handle  of  the  spade,  which  was  half  stuck  into 
the  ground,  and  one  foot  on  the  iron  rest  affixed  to  the  handle ; 
speculating  in  his  mind,  as  he  thus  stood,  on  the  mysteries  of 
the  past  night,  on  what  would  reasonably  be  expected  of  him, 
and  on  what  course  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  pursue,  he  saw 
two  men  approaching  him  with  very  fierce  looks,  wearing  long 
hair,  like  the  first  race  of  French  kings,  and  otherwise  bearing 
a  strong  resemblance  to  the  two  who,  five  days  before,  had 
confronted  Don  Abbondio,  if,  indeed,  they  were  not  the  same 
men.  These,  with  still  less  ceremony  than  had  been  used  to- 
ward the  curate,  intimated  to  the  constable  that  he  must  take 
right  good  care  not  to  make  a  deposition  to  the  Podesta  of 
what  had  happened,  not  to  tell  the  truth  in  case  he  was  ques- 
tioned, not  to  gossip,  and  not  to  encourage  gossiping  among 
the  villagers,  as  he  valued  his  life. 

Our  fugitives  walked  a  little  way  at  a  quick  pace  in  silence, 
one  or  other  occasionally  looking  back  to  see  if  they  were  fol- 
lowed, all  of  them  wearied  by  the  fatigue  of  the  flight,  by  the 
anxiety  and  suspense  they  had  endured,  by  grief  at  their  ill- 
success,  and  by  confused  apprehensions  of  new  and  unknown 
danger.  Their  terror,  too,  was  increased  by  the  sound  of 
the  bell,  which  still  continued  to  follow  them,  and  seemed  to 
become  heavier  and  more  hoarse  the  further  they  left  it  be- 
hind them,  acquiring  every  moment  something  more  mourn- 
ful and  ominous  in  its  tone.  At  last  the  ringing  ceased.  Reach- 
ing then  -a  deserted  field,  and  not  hearing  a  whisper  around, 
they  slackened  their  pace,  and  Agnese,  taking  breath,  was 
the  first  to  break  the  silence,  by  asking  Renzo  how  matters 
had  gone,  and  Menico,  what  was  the  demon  in  their  house. 
Renzo  briefly  related  his  melancholy  story;  and  then,  all  of 
them  turning  to  the  child,  he  informed  them  more  expressly 
of  the  Father's  advice,  and  narrated  what  he  had  himself  wit- 
nessed and  the  hazards  he  had  run,  which  too  surely  con- 
firmed the  advice.  His  auditors,  however,  understood  more 
of  this  than  did  the  speaker;  they  were  seized  with  new  horror 
at  the  discovery,  and  for  a  moment  paused  in  their  walk,  ex- 
changing mutual  looks  of  fear;  then  with  an  unanimous  move- 
ment they  laid  their  hands,  some  on  the  head,  others  on  the 
8 


114  MANZONI 

shoulders  of  the  boy,  as  if  to  caress  him,  and  tacitly  to  thank 
him  for  having  been  to  them  a  guardian  angel;  at  the  same 
time  signifying  the  compassion  they  felt  for  him,  and  almost 
apologizing  for  the  terror  he  had  endured  and  the  danger  he 
had  undergone  on  their  account.  "  Now  go  home,  that  your 
family  may  not  be  anxious  about  you  any  longer,"  said  Ag- 
nese;  and  remembering  the  two  promised  parpagliole,  she 
took  out  four,  and  gave  them  to  him,  adding:  "  That  will  do; 
pray  the  Lord  that  we  may  meet  again  soon;  and  then  .  .  .  ." 
Renzo  gave  him  a  new  berlinga,  and  begged  him  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  message  he  had  brought  from  the  Father:  Lucia 
again  caressed  him,  bade  him  farewell  with  a  sorrowful  voice, 
and  the  boy,  almost  overcome,  wished  them  good-bye,  and 
turned  back.  The  melancholy  trio  continued  their  walk,  the 
women  taking  the  lead,  and  Renzo  behind  to  act  as  guard. 
Lucia  clung  closely  to  her  mother's  arm,  kindly  and  dexter- 
ously avoiding  the  proffered  assistance  of  the  youth  at  the  dif- 
ficult passes  of  this  unfrequented  path;  feeling  ashamed  of  her- 
self, even  in  such  troubles,  for  having  already  been  so  long 
and  so  familiarly  alone  with  him,  while  expecting  in  a  few 
moments  to  be  his  wife.  Now  that  this  vision  had  been  so 
sorrowfully  dispelled,  she  repented  having  proceeded  thus  far; 
and,  amidst  so  many  causes  of  fear,  she  feared  even  for  her 
modesty — not  such  modesty  as  arises  from  the  sad  knowledge 
of  evil,  but  for  that  which  is  ignorant  of  its  own  existence — 
like  the  dread  of  a  child  who  trembles  in  the  dark,  he  knows 
not  why. 

"And  the  house?"  suddenly  exclaimed  Agnese.  But 
however  important  the  object  might  be  which  extorted  this 
exclamation,  no  one  replied,  because  no  one  could  do  so 
satisfactorily.  They  therefore  continued  their  walk  in  silence, 
and,  in  a  little  while,  reached  the  square  before  the  church  of 
the  convent. 

Renzo  advanced  to  the  door  of  the  church,  and  gently 
pushed  it  open.  The  moon  that  entered  through  the  aperture 
fell  upon  the  pale  face  and  silvery  beard  of  Father  Cristoforo, 
who  was  standing  here  expecting  them ;  and  having  seen  that 
no  one  was  missing,  "  God  be  praised!"  said  he,  beckoning 
to  them  to  enter.  By  his  side  stood  another  Capuchin,  the 
lay  sexton,  whom  he  had  persuaded,  by  prayers  and  argu- 
ments, to  keep  vigil  with  him,  to  leave  the  door  ajar,  and  to 
remain  there  on  guard  to  receive  these  poor  threatened  crea- 
tures; and  it  required  nothing  short  of  the  authority  of  the 
Father,  and  of  his  fame  as  a  saint,  to  persuade  the  layman 
to  so  inconvenient,  perilous,  and  irregular  a  condescension. 


THE   BETROTHED 


115 


When  they  were  inside,  Father  Cristoforo  very  softly  shut  the 
door.  Then  the  sexton  could  no  longer  contain  himself,  and 
taking  the  Father  aside,  whispered  in  his  ear:  ''  But  Father, 
Father!  at  night  ....  in  church  ....  with  women  .  .  .  . 
shut  ....  the  rule  ....  but  Father!  "  And  he  shook  his 
head,  while  thus  hesitatingly  pronouncing  these  words.  Just 
see!  thought  Father  Cristoforo;  if  it  were  a  pursued  robber. 
Friar  Fazio  would  make  no  difficulty  in  the  world;  and  a  poor 
innocent  escaping  from  the  jaws  of  a  wolf  ....'*  Omnia 
munda  mundis,"  added  he,  turning  suddenly  to  Friar  Fazio, 
and  forgetting  that  he  did  not  understand  Latin.  But  this 
forgetfulness  was  exactly  what  produced  the  right  effect.  If 
the  Father  had  begun  to  dispute  and  reason,  Friar  Fazio 
would  not  have  failed  to  urge  opposing  arguments;  and  no 
one  knows  how  and  when  the  discussion  would  have  come 
to  an  end;  but  at  the  sound  of  these  weighty  words  of  a 
mysterious  signification,  and  so  resolutely  uttered,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  in  them  must  be  contained  the  solution  of  all 
his  doubts.  He  acquiesced,  saying:  "Very  well;  you  know 
more  about  it  than  I  do." 

*' Trust  me,  then,"  replied  Father  Cristoforo;  and  by  the 
dim  light  of  the  lamp  burning  before  the  altar,  he  approached 
the  refugees,  who  stood  w^aiting  in  suspense,  and  said  to  them: 
"  My  children,  thank  God,  who  has  delivered  you  from  so 
great  a  danger!  Perhaps  at  this  moment  .  .  .  ."  and  here  he 
began  to  explain  more  fully  what  he  had  hinted  by  the  little 
messenger,  little  suspecting  that  they  knew  more  than  he,  and 
supposing  that  Menico  had  found  them  quiet  in  their  own 
house,  before  the  arrival  of  the  ruffians.  Nobody  undeceived 
him,  not  even  Lucia,  whose  conscience,  however,  was  all  the 
while  secretly  reproaching  her  for  practising  such  dissimula- 
tion w4th  so  good  a  man;  but  it  was  a  night  of  embarrass- 
ment and  dissimulation. 

''  After  this,"  continued  he,  "  you  must  feel,  my  children, 
that  the  village  is  no  longer  safe  for  you.  It  is  yours,  you 
were  born  there,  and  you  have  done  no  wrong  to  any  one; 
but  God  wills  it  so.  It  is  a  trial,  my  children;  bear  it  with 
patience  and  faith,  without  indulging  in  rancour,  and  rest  as- 
sured there  will  come  a  day  when  you  will  think  yourselves 
happy  that  this  has  occurred.  I  have  thought  of  a  refuge  for 
you,  for  the  present.  Soon,  I  hope,  you  may  be  able  to  re- 
turn in  safety  to  your  own  house;  at  any  rate,  God  will  pro- 
vide what  is  best  for  you;  and  I  assure  you,  I  will  be  careful 
not  to  prove  unworthy  of  the  favour  He  has  bestowed  upon 
me,  in  choosing  me  as  His  minister,  in  the  service  of  you,  His 


Il6  MANZONI 

poor,  yet  loved  afflicted  ones.  You,"  continued  he,  turning 
to  the  two  women,  "  can  stay  at  *  *  *  *.  Here  you  will  be  far 
enough  from  every  danger,  and  at  the  same  time  not  far  from 
your  own  home.  There  seek  out  our  convent,  ask  for  the 
guardian,  and  give  him  this  letter;  he  will  be  to  you  another 
Father  Cristoforo.  And  you,  my  Renzo,  must  put  yourself 
in  safety  from  the  anger  of  others,  and  your  own.  Carry  this 
letter  to  Father  Bonaventura  da  Lodi,  in  our  convent  of  the 
Porta  Orientale,  at  Milan.  He  will  be  a  father  to  you,  will 
give  you  directions,  and  find  you  work,  till  you  can  return  and 
live  more  peaceably.  Go  to  the  shore  of  the  lake,  near  the 
mouth  of  the  Bione,  a  river  not  far  from  this  monastery. 
Here  you  will  see  a  boat  waiting;  say,  '  Boat! '  it  will  be  asked 
you  *  For  whom? '  And  you  must  reply,  '  San  Francesco.' 
The  boat  will  receive  you,  and  carry  you  to  the  other  side, 
where    you    will    find    a    cart,    that   will    take    you    straight 

+  Q         *         *         *         *      " 

If  any  one  asks  how  Father  Cristoforo  had  so  quickly  at 
his  disposal  these  means  of  transport  by  land  and  water,  it 
will  show  that  he  does  not  know  the  influence  and  power  of  a 
Capuchin  held  in  reputation  as  a  saint. 

It  still  remained  to  decide  about  the  care  of  the  houses. 
The  Father  received  the  keys,  pledging  himself  to  deliver 
them  to  whomsoever  Renzo  and  Agnese  should  name.  The 
latter,  in  delivering  up  hers,  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  remember- 
ing that,  at  that  moment,  the  house  was  open,  that  the  devil 
had  been  there,  and  who  knew  what  remained  to  be  taken 
care  of! 

"  Before  you  go,"  said  the  Father,  "  let  us  pray  all  to- 
gether that  the  Lord  may  be  with  you  in  this  your  journey, 
and  for  ever;  and,  above  all,  that  He  may  give  you  strength, 
and  a  spirit  of  love,  to  enable  you  to  desire  whatever  He  has 
willed."  So  saying,  he  knelt  down  in  the  middle  of  the 
church,  and  they  all  followed  his  example.  After  praying  a 
few  moments  in  silence,  with  a  low  but  distinct  voice  he  pro- 
nounced these  words:  "We  beseech  Thee,  also,  for  the  un- 
happy person  who  has  brought  us  to  this  state.  We  should 
be  unworthy  of  Thy  mercy,  if  we  did  not,  from  our  hearts,  im- 
plore it  for  him;  he  needs  it,  O  Lord!  We,  in  our  sorrow, 
have  this  consolation,  that  we  are  in  the  path  where  Thou  hast 
placed  us;  we  can  offer  Thee  our  griefs,  and  they  may  be- 
come our  gain.  But  he  is  Thine  enemy!  Alas,  wretched 
man!  he  is  striving  with  Thee!  Have  mercy  on  him,  O  Lord; 
touch  his  heart;  reconcile  him  to  Thyself,  and  give  him  all 
those  good  things  we  could  desire  for  ourselves." 


THE   BETROTHED  I17 

Rising  then  in  haste,  he  said:  "  Come,  my  children,  you 
have  no  time  to  lose;  God  defend  you;  His  angel  go  with  you 
— farewell !  "  And  while  they  set  off  with  that  emotion  which 
can  not  find  words,  and  manifests  itself  without  them,  the  Fa- 
ther added,  in  an  agitated  tone,  "  My  heart  tells  me  we  shall 
meet  again  soon." 

Certainly,  the  heart,  to  those  who  listen  to  it,  has  always 
something  to  say  on  what  will  happen;  but  what  did  his 
heart  know?  Very  little,  truly,  of  what  had  already  hap- 
pened. 

Without  waiting  a  reply.  Father  Cristoforo  retired  with 
hasty  steps;  the  travellers  took  their  departure;  and  Father 
Fazio  shut  the  door  after  them,  bidding  them  farewell  with 
even  his  voice  a  little  faltering. 

The  trio  slowly  made  their  way  to  the  shore  they  had  been 
directed  to;  there  they  espied  the  boat,  and  exchanging  the 
pass-word,  stepped  in.  The  waterman,  planting  one  oar  on 
the  land,  pushed  off;  then  took  up  the  other  oar,  and  rowing 
with  both  hands,  pulled  out  and  made  toward  the  opposite 
beach.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  was  stirring;  the  lake  lay  bright 
and  smooth,  and  would  have  appeared  motionless  but  for  the 
tremulous  and  gentle  undulation  of  the  moonbeams,  which 
gleamed  upon  it  from  the  zenith.  No  sounds  were  heard  but 
the  muffled  and  slowly-measured  breaking  of  the  surge  upon 
the  pebbly  shore,  the  more  distant  gurgling  of  the  troubled 
waters  dashing  among  the  piles  of  the  bridge,  and  the  even 
plash  of  the  light  sculls,  as,  rising  with  a  sharp  sound  of  the 
dripping  blade,  and  quickly  plunged  again  beneath,  they  cut 
the  azure  surface  of  the  lake.  The  waves,  divided  by  the 
prow,  and  reuniting  behind  the  little  bark,  tracked  out  a  curl- 
ing line,  which  extended  itself  to  the  shore.  The  silent  trav- 
ellers, with  their  faces  turned  backwards,  gazed  upon  the 
mountains  and  the  country,  illumined  by  the  pale  light  of  the 
moon,  and  diversified  here  and  there  with  vast  shadows. 
They  could  distinguish  the  villages,  the  houses,  and  the  little 
cabins:  the  palace  of  Don  Rodrigo,  with  its  square  towxr, 
rising  above  the  group  of  huts  at  the  base  of  the  promontory, 
looked  like  a  savage  standing  in  the  dark,  and  meditating 
some  evil  deed,  while  keeping  guard  over  a  company  of  re- 
clining sleepers.  Lucia  saw  it  and  shuddered;  then  drawing 
her  eye  along  the  declivity  till  she  reached  her  native  village, 
she  fixed  her  gaze  on  its  extremity,  sought  for  her  own  cot- 
tage, traced  out  the  thick  head  of  the  fig-tree  which  towered 
above  the  wall  of  the  court-yard,  discovered  the  window  of  her 
own  room;  and,  being  seated  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  she 


Il8  MANZONI 


leaned  her  elbow  on  the  edge,  laid  her  forehead  on  her  arm, 
as  if  she  were  sleeping,  and  wept  in  secret. 

Farewell,  ye  mountains,  rising  from  the  waters,  and  point- 
ing to  the  heavens!  ye  varied  summits,  familiar  to  him  who 
has  been  brought  up  among  you,  and  impressed  upon  his 
mind  as  clearly  as  the  countenance  of  his  dearest  friends!  ye 
torrents,  whose  murmur  he  recognizes  like  the  sound  of  the 
voices  of  home!  ye  villages,  scattered  and  glistening  on  the 
declivity,  like  flocks  of  grazing  sheep!  farewell!  How  mourn- 
ful is  the  step  of  him  who,  brought  up  amidst  your  scenes,  is 
compelled  to  leave  you !  Even  in  the  imagination  of  one  who 
willingly  departs,  attracted  by  the  hope  of  making  a  fortune 
elsewhere,  the  dreams  of  wealth  at  this  moment  lose  their 
charms;  he  wonders  he  could  form  such  a  resolution,  and 
would  even  now  turn  back,  but  for  the  hope  of  one  day  re- 
turning with  a  rich  abundance.  As  he  advances  into  the  plain, 
his  eye  becomes  wearied  with  its  uniform  extent;  the  atmos- 
phere feels  heavy  and  lifeless;  he  sadly  and  listlessly  enters 
the  busy  cities,  where  houses  crowded  upon  houses,  and 
streets  intersecting  streets,  seem  to  take  away  his  breath; 
and,  before  edifices  admired  by  the  stranger,  he  recalls  with 
restless  longing  the  fields  of  his  own  country,  and  the  cot- 
tage he  had  long  ago  set  his  heart  upon,  and  which  he 
resolves  to  purchase  when  he  returns  enriched  to  his  own 
mountains. 

But  what  must  he  feel  who  has  never  sent  a  passing  wish 
beyond  these  mountains,  who  has  arranged  among  them  all 
his  designs  for  the  future,  and  is  driven  far  away  by  an  ad- 
verse power!  who,  suddenly  snatched  away  from  his  dearest 
habits,  and  thwarted  in  his  dearest  hopes,  leaves  these  moun- 
tains to  go  in  search  of  strangers  whom  he  never  desired  to 
know,  and  is  unable  to  look  forward  to  a  fixed  time  of  re- 
turn! 

Farewell!  native  cottage,  where,  indulging  in  uncon- 
scious thought,  one  learnt  to  distinguish  from  the  noise  of 
common  footsteps,  the  approach  of  a  tread  expected  with 
mysterious  timidity!  Farewell!  thou  cottage,  still  a  stranger, 
but  so  often  hastily  glanced  at,  not  without  a  blush,  in  passing, 
in  which  the  mind  took  delight  to  figure  to  itself  the  tranquil 
and  lasting  home  of  a  wife!  Farewell!  my  church,  where  the 
heart  was  so  often  soothed  while  chanting  the  praises  of  the 
Lord;  where  the  preparatory  rite  of  betrothal  was  performed; 
where  the  secret  sighing  of  the  heart  was  solemnly  blessed 
and  love  was  inspired,  and  one  felt  a  hallowing  influence 
around;  farewell!     He  who  imparted  to  you  such  gladness 


THE    BETROTHED 


119 


is  everywhere;  and  He  never  disturbs  the  joy  of  His  children, 
but  to  prepare  them  for  one  more  certain  and  durable. 

Of  such  a  nature,  if  not  exactly  these,  were  the  reflections 
of  Lucia;  and  not  very  dissimilar  were  those  of  the  two  other 
wanderers,  while  the  little  bark  rapidly  approached  the  right 
bank  of  the  Adda. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE  striking  of  the  boat  against  the  shore  aroused 
Lucia,  who,  after  secretly  drying  her  tears,  raised  her 
head  as  if  she  were  just  awaking.  Renzo  jumped  out 
first,  and  gave  his  hand  successively  to  Agnese  and  Lu- 
cia; and  then  they  all  turned,  and  sorrowfully  thanked  the  boat- 
man. "  Nothing,  nothing;  we  are  placed  here  to  help  one  an- 
other," answered  he;  and  he  withdrew  his  hand,  almost  with 
a  movement  of  horror,  as  if  it  had  been  proposed  to  him  to 
rob,  when  Renzo  tried  to  slip  in  one  or  two  of  the  coins  he 
had  about  him,  and  which  he  had  brought  in  his  pocket  with 
the  intention  of  generously  requiting  Don  Abbondio,  when 
he  should,  though  against  his  will,  have  rendered  the  desired 
assistance.  The  cart  stood  waiting  for  them;  the  driver  sa- 
luted the  three  expected  travellers,  and  bid  them  get  in;  and 
then,  with  his  voice  and  a  stroke  of  the  whip,  he  started  the 
animal  and  set  forward. 

Our  author  does  not  describe  this  nocturnal  journey,  and 
is  silent  as  to  the  name  of  the  town  to  which  the  little  company 
were  directing  their  steps;  or  rather,  he  expressly  eays,  he 
v/ill  not  give  the  name.  In  the  course  of  the  story,  the  reason 
of  all  this  mystery  appears.  The  adventures  of  Lucia  in  this 
abode  involve  a  dark  intrigue  of  a  person  belonging  to  a  fam- 
ily still  powerful,  as  it  appears,  at  the  time  our  author  wrote. 
To  account  for  the  strange  conduct  of  this  person  in  the  par- 
ticular instance  he  relates,  he  has  been  obliged  briefly  to  re- 
count her  early  life;  and  there  the  family  makes  the  figure 
which  our  readers  will  see.  Hence  the  poor  man's  great  cir- 
cumspection. And  yet  (how  people  sometimes  forget  them- 
selves!) he  himself,  without  being  aware  of  it,  has  opened  a 
way  of  discovering,  with  certainty,  what  he  had  taken  such 
great  pains  to  keep  concealed.  In  one  part  of  the  account, 
which  we  will  omit  as  not  being  necessary  to  the  integrity  of 
the  story,  he  happens  to  say  that  this  place  was  an  ancient  and 
noble  borough,  which  wanted  nothing  but  the  name  to  be  a 
city;  he  then  inadvertently  mentions  that  the  river  Lambro 
runs  through  it;  and,  again,  that  it  was  the  seat  of  an  arch- 

I20 


THE   BETROTHED  I2I 

presbyter.  With  these  indications,  there  is  not  in  all  Europe 
a  moderately-learned  man  who  will  not  instantly  exclaim, 
'*Monza!"  We  could  also  propose  some  very  well-founded 
conjectures  on  the  name  of  the  family;  but,  although  the  ob- 
ject of  our  conjectures  has  been  some  time  extinct,  we  con- 
sider it  better  to  be  silent  on  this  head,  not  to  run  the  risk  of 
wronging  even  the  dead,  and  to  leave  some  subject  of  research 
for  the  learned. 

Our  travellers  reaching  Monza  shortly  after  sunrise;  the 
driver  turned  into  an  inn,  and,  as  if  at  home  in  the  place  and 
well  acquainted  with  the  landlord,  ordered  a  room  for  the 
newly-arrived  guests,  and  accompanied  them  thither.  After 
many  acknowledgments,  Renzo  tried  to  induce  him  to  re- 
ceive some  reward;  but  he,  like  the  boatman,  had  in  view  an- 
other, more  distant,  but  more  abundant  recompense:  he  put 
his  hands  behind  him,  and  making  his  escape  went  to  look 
after  his  horse. 

After  such  a  night  as  we  have  described,  and  as  every  one 
may  imagine,  the  greatest  part  spent  in  mournful  thoughts, 
with  the  constant  dread  of  some  unforeseen  misfortune,  in  the 
melancholy  silence  of  night,  in  the  sharpness  of  a  more  than 
autumnal  air,  and  amid  the  frequent  jolts  of  the  incommo- 
dious vehicle,  which  rudely  shook  the  weary  frames  of  our 
travellers,  they  soon  felt  themselves  overpowered  with  sleep, 
and  availed  themselves  of  a  sofa  that  stood  in  an  adjoining 
room  to  take  a  little  repose.  They  then  partook  together  of  a 
frugal  meal,  such  as  the  poverty  of  the  times  would  allow,  and 
scant  in  proportion  to  the  contingent  wants  of  an  uncertain 
future,  and  their  own  slender  appetite.  One  after  another 
they  remembered  the  banquet  which,  two  days  before,  they 
had  hoped  to  enjoy;  and  each  in  turn  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
Renzo  would  gladly  have  stayed  there,  at  least  for  that  day,  to 
have  seen  the  two  women  provided  for,  and  to  have  given 
them  his  services,  but  the  Father  had  recommended  them  to 
send  him  on  his  way  as  quickly  as  possible.  They  alleged, 
therefore,  these  orders,  and  a  hundred  other  reasons — people 
would  gossip — the  longer  the  separation  was  delayed,  the 
more  painful  it  would  be — he  could  come  again  soon,  to  give 
and  learn  news — so  that,  at  last,  the  youth  determined  to 
go.  Their  plans  were  then  more  definitely  arranged:  Lucia 
did  not  attempt  to  hide  her  tears;  Renzo  could  scarcely  re- 
strain his;  and,  warmly  pressing  Agnese's  hand,  he  said,  in 
an  almost  choked  voice,  "  Farewell,  till  we  meet  again!  "  and 
set  oflf. 

The  women  would  have  found  themselves  much  at  a  loss, 


122  MANZONI 

had  it  not  been  for  the  good  driver,  who  had  orders  to  guide 
them  to  the  convent,  and  to  give  them  any  direction  and  as- 
sistance they  might  stand  in  need  of.  With  this  escort,  then, 
they  took  their  way  to  the  convent,  which,  as  every  one  knows, 
was  a  short  distance  outside  the  town  of  Monza.  Arrived  at 
the  door,  their  conductor  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  for  the 
guardian,  who  quickly  made  his  appearance,  and  received  the 
letter. 

"  Oh!  brother  Cristoforo!  "  said  he,  recognizing  the  hand- 
writing, the  tone  of  his  voice  and  the  expression  of  his  face 
evidently  indicating  that  he  uttered  the  name  of  an  intimate 
friend.  It  might  easily  be  seen,  too,  that  our  good  friar  had 
in  this  letter  warmly  recommended  the  women,  and  related 
their  case  with  much  feeling,  for  the  guardian  kept  making 
gestures  of  surprise  and  indignation,  and  raising  his  eyes  from 
the  paper,  he  would  fix  them  upon  the  women  with  a  certain 
expression  of  pity  and  interest.  When  he  had  finished  read- 
ing it,  he  stood  for  a  little  while  thoughtful,  and  then  said  to 
himself,  "  There  is  no  one  but  the  Signora — if  the  Signora 
would  take  upon  herself  this  charge."  He  then  drew  Agnese 
a  few  steps  aside  in  the  little  square  before  the  convent;  asked 
her  a  few  questions,  which  she  answered  satisfactorily,  and 
then,  turning  toward  Lucia,  addressed  them  both:  "  My  good 
women,  I  will  try;  and  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  find  you  a 
retreat  more  than  secure,  more  than  honourable,  until  it  shall 
please  God  to  provide  for  you  in  some  better  way.  Will  you 
come  with  me?  " 

The  women  reverently  bowed  assent,  and  the  friar  con- 
tinued: ''  Come  with  me  to  the  convent  of  the  Signora.  Keep, 
however,  a  few  steps  behind  me,  because  people  delight  to 
speak  evil,  and  no  one  knows  what  fine  stories  they  would 
make  out,  if  they  were  to  see  the  Father-guardian  walking 
with  a  beautiful  young  girl  ....  with  women,  I  mean  to 
say." 

So  saying  he  moved  forward.  Lucia  blushed,  their  guide 
smiled,  and  glanced  at  Agnese,  who  betrayed,  also,  a  momen- 
tary smile,  and  when  the  friar  had  gone  a  few  steps,  they  fol- 
lowed him  at  about  ten  yards'  distance.  The  women  then 
asked  their  guide,  what  they  did  not  dare  say  to  the  Father- 
guardian,  who  the  Signora  was. 

"  The  Signora,"  replied  he,  "  is  a  nun;  but  she  is  not  like 
the  other  nuns.  Not  that  she  is  either  the  Abbess,  or  the 
Prioress;  for,  from  what  they  say,  she  is  one  of  the  youngest 
there:  but  she  is  from  Adam's  rib,  and  she  is  of  an  ancient 
and   high   family   in   Spain,   where   some   of   them   now  are 


THE   BETROTHED 


123 


princes;  and  therefore  they  call  her  the  Signora,  to  show  that 
she  is  a  great  lady:  and  all  the  country  call  her  by  this  name, 
for  they  say  there  never  was  her  equal  in  this  monastery  be- 
fore; and  even  now,  down  at  Milan,  her  family  ranks  very 
high,  and  is  held  in  great  esteem;  and  in  Monza  still  more  so, 
because  her  father,  though  he  does  not  live  here,  is  the  first 
man  in  the  country;  so  that  she  can  do  what  she  pleases  in 
the  convent;  and  all  the  country-people  bear  her  great  re- 
spect; and  if  she  undertakes  a  business  she  is  sure  to  succeed 
in  it;  so  that  if  this  good  monk  before  us  is  fortunate  enough 
to  get  you  into  her  hands,  and  she  takes  you  under  her  pro- 
tection, I  dare  venture  to  say  you  will  be  as  safe  as  at  the 
altar." 

On  reaching  the  gate  of  the  town,  flanked  at  that  time  by  an 
ancient  ruined  tower,  and  a  fragment  of  a  demolished  castle, 
which,  perhaps,  some  few  of  my  readers  may  still  remember 
to  have  seen  standing,  the  guardian  stopped  and  looked  be- 
hind to  see  if  they  were  following;  he  then  passed  through 
and  went  on  to  the  convent,  and,  when  he  reached  it,  stopped 
again  at  the  doorway,  and  waited  for  the  little  party.  He  then 
begged  the  guide  to  come  again  to  the  convent,  to  take  back 
a  reply;  he  promised  to  do  so,  and  took  his  leave  of  the  wom- 
en, who  loaded  him  with  thanks  and  messages  to  Father 
Cristoforo.  The  guardian,  bidding  them  go  into  the  first 
court  of  the  monastery,  ushered  them  into  the  apartments  of 
the  portress,  to  whom  he  recommended  them,  and  went  for- 
ward alone  to  make  his  request.  After  a  few  moments,  he 
returned,  and  with  a  joyful  manner  told  them  to  come  with 
him;  his  reappearance  was  just  apropos,  for  they  were  be- 
ginning to  find  it  difficult  to  ward  ofif  the  pressing  inter- 
rogations of  the  portress.  While  traversing  the  inner  court, 
the  Father  instructed  the  women  how  they  must  behave  to  the 
Signora.  *'  She  is  well-disposed  toward  you,"  said  he,  "  and 
may  be  of  much  service  to  you.  Be  humble  and  respectful, 
reply  with  frankness  to  the  questions  she  may  please  to  put; 
and  when  you  are  not  questioned,  leave  it  to  me."  They  then 
passed  through  a  lower  room  to  the  parlour  of  the  convent; 
and  before  entering,  the  guardian,  pointing  to  the  door,  said 
to  the  women  in  an  undertone,  **  She  is  there;"  as  if  to  re- 
mind them  of  the  lessons  he  had  been  giving.  Lucia,  who 
had  never  before  seen  a  monastery,  on  entering  the  room, 
looked  round  for  the  Signora  to  whom  she  was  to  make  obei- 
sance, and  perceiving  no  one,  she  stood  perplexed;  but  see- 
ing the  Father  advance,  and  Agnese  following,  she  looked  in 
that  direction,  and  observed  an  almost  square  aperture,  like  a 


124  MANZONI 

half-window,  grated  with  two  large  thick  iron  bars,  distant 
from  each  other  about  a  span,  and  behind  this  a  nun  was 
standing.  Her  countenance,  which  showed  her  to  be  about 
twenty-five  vears  old,  gave  the  impression,  at  a  first  glance, 
of  beauty,  but  of  beauty  worn,  faded,  and,  one  might  almost 
say,  spoiled.  A  black  veil,  stiffened  and  stretched  quite  flat 
upon  her  head,  fell  on  each  side  and  stood  out  a  little  way 
from  her  face;  under  the  veil,  a  very  white  linen  band  half 
covered  a  forehead  of  different  but  not  inferior  whiteness;  a 
second  band,  in  folds,  down  each  side  of  the  face,  crossed 
under  the  chin,  encircled  the  neck,  and  was  spread  a  little  over 
the  breast  to  conceal  the  opening  of  a  black  dress.  But  this 
forehead  was  wrinkled  every  now  and  then,  as  if  by  some 
painful  emotion,  accompanied  by  the  rapid  movement  of  two 
jet-black  eyebrows.  Sometimes  she  would  fix  two  very  dark 
eyes  on  another's  face  with  a  piercing  look  of  haughty  in- 
vestigation, and  then  again  would  hastily  lower  them,  as  if 
seeking  a  hiding-place.  One  moment,  an  attentive  observer 
would  imagine  they  were  soliciting  affection,  intercourse,  pity; 
at  another,  he  would  gather  thence  a  momentary  revelation 
of  ancient  and  smothered  hatred — of  some  indescribable,  fierce 
disposition;  and  when  they  remained  immovably  fixed  with- 
out attention,  some  might  have  imagined  a  proud  indifference, 
while  others  would  have  suspected  the  labouring  of  some  se- 
cret thought,  the  overpowering  dominion  of  an  idea  familiar 
to  her  mind,  and  more  engrossing  than  surrounding  objects. 
Her  pale  cheeks  were  delicately  formed,  but  much  altered  and 
shrunk  by  a  gradual  extenuation.  Her  lips,  though  scarcely 
suffused  with  a  faint  tinge  of  the  rose,  stood  out  in  contrast 
with  this  paleness,  and,  like  her  eyes,  their  movements  were 
sudden,  quick,  and  full  of  expression  and  mystery.  The  well- 
formed  tallness  of  her  figure  disappeared  in  the  habitual  stoop 
of  her  carriage,  or  was  disfigured  by  certain  quick  and  irregu- 
lar starts,  which  betrayed  too  resolute  an  air  for  a  woman, 
still  more  for  a  nun.  In  her  very  dress,  there  was  a  display 
of  either  particularity  or  negligence,  which  betokened  a  nun 
of  singular  character;  her  head-dress  was  arranged  with  a 
kind  of  worldly  carefulness,  and  from  under  the  band  around 
her  head  the  end  of  a  curl  of  glossy  black  hair  appeared  upon 
her  temple,  betraying  either  forgetfulness,  or  contempt  of  the 
rule  which  required  them  always  to  keep  the  hair  closely 
shaven.  It  was  cut  off  first  at  the  solemn  ceremony  of  their 
admission. 

These  things  made  no  impression   on  the  minds   of  the 
two  women,  inexperienced  in  distinguishing  nun  from  nun; 


THE   BETROTHED 


I2S 


and  the  Father-guardian  had  so  frequently  seen  the  Signora 
before  that  he  was  already  accustomed,  like  many  others,  to 
the  singularities  in  manner  and  dress  which  she  displayed. 

She  was  standing,  as  we  have  said,  near  the  grated  win- 
dow, languidly  leaning  on  it  with  one  hand,  twining  her  deli- 
cately-white fingers  in  the  interstices,  and  with  her  head  slight- 
ly bent  downward,  surveying  the  advancing  party.  "  Rever- 
end mother  and  most  illustrious  Signora,"  said  the  guardian, 
bowing  his  head,  and  laying  his  right  hand  upon  his  breast, 
'*  this  is  the  poor  young  girl  to  whom  you  have  encouraged 
me  to  hope  you  will  extend  your  valuable  protection;  and  this 
is  her  mother." 

Agnese  and  Lucia  reverently  curtseyed :  the  Signora  beck- 
oning to  them  with  her  hand  that  she  was  satisfied,  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  Father:  ''  It  is  fortunate  for  me  that  I  have  it  in  my 
powxr  to  serve  our  good  friends  the  Capuchin  Fathers  in  any 
matter.  But,"  continued  she,  "  will  you  tell  me  a  little  more 
particularly  the  case  of  this  young  girl,  so  that  I  may  know^ 
better  what  I  ought  to  do  for  her? " 

Lucia  blushed,  and  held  down  her  head. 

"  You  must  know,  reverend  mother  .  .  .  ."  began  Agnese; 
but  the  guardian  silenced  her  with  a  glance,  and  replied, 
"  This  young  girl,  most  illustrious  lady,  has  been  recommend- 
ed to  me,  as  I  told  you,  by  a  brother  friar.  She  has  been  com- 
pelled secretly  to  leave  her  country  to  avoid  great  dangers, 
and  wants  an  asylum  for  some  time  where  she  may  live  retired, 
and  where  no  one  will  dare  molest  her,  even  when  .  .  .  ." 

"What  dangers?"  interrupted  the   Signora.     **  Be   g-oM, 
enough,   Father,   not  to  tell   me  the   case   so   enigiiia'-ically. 
You  know  that  we  nuns  like  to  hear  stories  minutely." 

''  They  are  dangers,"  replied  the  guardian,  ''  which  scarce- 
ly ought  to  be  mentioned  ever  so  delicately  in  the  pure  ears 
of  the  reverend  mother  .  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  certainly!  "  replied  the  Signora,  hastily,  and  slightly 
colouring.  Was  it  modesty?  One  who  would  have  observed 
the  momentary  expression  of  vexation  >\'hich  accompanied 
this  blush  might  have  entertained  some  doubt  of  it,  especially 
if  he  had  compared  it  with  that  which  diffused  itself  from  time 
to  time  on  the  cheeks  of  Lucia. 

"  It  is  enough,"  resumed  the  guardian,  "  that  a  powerful 
nobleman  ....  not  all  the  great  people  of  the  world  use  the 
gifts  of  God  to  his  glory  and  for  the  good  of  their  neighbours, 
as  your  illustrious  ladyship  has  done  ....  a  powerful  cava- 
lier, after  having  for  some  time  persecuted  this  poor  girl  with 
base  flatteries,  seeing  that  they  were  useless,  had  the  heart 


126  MANZONI 

Openly  to  persecute  her  by  force,  so  that  the  poor  thing  has 
been  obhged  to  fly  from  her  home." 

''  Come  near,  young  girl,"  said  the  Signora  to  Lucia,  beck- 
oning to  her  with  her  hand.  ''  I  know  that  the  Father-guard- 
ian is  truth  itself;  but  no  one  can  be  better  informed  in  this 
business  than  yourself.  It  rests  with  you  to  say  whether  this 
cavalier  was  an  odious  persecutor." 

As  to  approaching,  Lucia  instantly  obeyed,  but  to  an- 
swer was  another  matter.  An  inquiry  on  this  subject,  even 
when  proposed  by  an  equal,  would  have  put  her  into  confu- 
sion; but  made  by  the  Signora,  and  with  a  certain  air  of 
malicious  doubt,  it  deprived  her  of  courage  to  reply.  "  Si- 
gnora ....  mother  ....  reverend  .  .  .  ."  stammered  she, 
but  she  seemed  to  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Agnese,  there- 
fore, as  being  certainly  the  best  informed  after  her,  here 
thought  herself  authorized  to  come  to  her  succour.  "  Most  il- 
lustrious Signora,"  said  she,  "  I  can  bear  full  testimony  that 
my  daughter  hated  this  cavalier,  as  the  devil  hates  holy  water: 
I  should  say  he  is  the  devil  himself;  but  you  will  excuse  me  if 
I  speak  improperly,  for  we  are  poor  folk,  as  God  made  us. 
The  case  is  this:  that  my  poor  girl  was  betrothed  to  a  youth 
in  her  own  station,  a  steady  man,  and  one  who  fears  God;  and 
if  the  Signor  Curate  had  been  what  he  ought  to  be  ...  . 
I  know  I  am  speaking  of  a  religious  man,  but  Father  Cristo- 
foro,  a  friend  here  of  the  Father-guardian,  is  a  religious  man 
as  well  as  he;  and  that's  the  man  that's  full  of  kindness;  and 
if  he  were  here  he  could  attest  .  .  .  ." 

^-^>"  You  are  very  ready  to  speak  without  being  spoken  to," 
mterhiDtecl  the  Signora,  with  a  haughty  and  angry  look, 
which  made  her  seem  almost  hideous.  "  Hold  your  tongue! 
I  know  well  enough  that  parents  are  always  ready  with  an 
answer  in  the  name  of  their  children!  " 

Agnese  drew  back,  mortified,  giving  Lucia  a  look  which 
meant  to  say.  See  what  I  get  by  your  not  knowing  how  to 
speak.  The  guardian  then  signified  to  her,  with  a  glance  and 
a  movement  of  his  head,  that  now  was  the  moment  to  arouse 
her  courage,  and  not  to  leave  her  poor  mother  in  such  a  plight. 

"  Reverend  lady,"  said  Lucia,  ''  what  my  mother  has  told 
you  is  exactly  the  truth.  The  youth  who  paid  his  addresses 
to  me  "  (and  here  she  coloured  crimson)  *'  I  chose  with  my 
own  good  will.  Forgive  me,  if  I  speak  too  boldly,  but  it  is 
that  you  may  not  think  ill  of  my  mother.  And  as  to  this  Si- 
gnor (God  forgive  him!)  I  would  rather  die  than  fall  into  his 
hands.  And  if  you  do  us  the  kindness  to  put  us  in  safety, 
since  we  are  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  asking  a  place  of 


THE   BETROTHED  12/ 

refuge,  and  of  inconveniencing  worthy  people  (but  God's  will 
be  done!),  be  assured,  lady,  that  no  one  will  pray  for  you  more 
earnestly  and  heartily  than  we  poor  women." 

*'  I  believe  you,"  said  the  Signora,  in  a  softened  tone. 
"  But  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  alone.  Not  that  I  require 
further  information,  nor  any  other  motives  to  attend  to  the 
wishes  of  the  Father-guardian,"  added  she,  hastily,  and  turn- 
ing toward  him  with  studied  politeness.  "  Indeed,"  continued 
she,  "  I  have  already  thought  about  it;  and  this  is  the  best 
plan  I  can  think  of  for  the  present.  The  portress  of  the  con- 
vent has,  a  few  days  ago,  settled  her  last  daughter  in  the 
world.  These  women  can  occupy  the  room  she  has  left  at 
liberty,  and  supply  her  place  in  the  trifling  services  she  per- 
formed in  the  monastery.  In  truth  .  .  .  ."  and  here  she 
beckoned  to  the  guardian  to  approach  the  grated  window,  and 
continued  in  an  under-voice — "  in  truth,  on  account  of  the 
scarcity  of  the  times,  it  was  not  intended  to  substitute  any  one 
in  the  place  of  that  young  woman;  but  I  will  speak  to  the 
Lady-Abbess;  and  at  a  word  from  me  ....  at  the  request  of 
the  Father-guardian  ....  in  short,  I  give  the  place  as  a  set- 
tled thing." 

The  guardian  began  to  return  thanks,  but  the  Signora 
interrupted  him:  ''There  is  no  need  of  ceremony:  in  a  case 
of  necessity  I  should  not  hesitate  to  apply  for  the  assistance  of 
the  Capuchin  Fathers.  In  fact,"  continued  she,  with  a  smile, 
in  which  appeared  an  indescribable  air  of  mockery  and  bit- 
terness— "  in  fact,  are  we  not  brothers  and  sisters?  " 

So  saying,  she  called  a  lay  sister  (two  of  whom  were,  by 
a  singular  distinction,  assigned  to  her  private  service),  and  de- 
sired her  to  inform  the  Abbess  of  the  circumstance;  then  send- 
ing for  the  portress  to  the  door  of  the  cloister,  she  concerted 
with  her  and  Agnese  the  necessary  arrangements.  Dismiss- 
ing her,  she  bade  farewell  to  the  guardian,  and  detained  Lucia. 
The  guardian  accompanied  Agnese  to  the  door,  giving  her 
new  instructions  by  the  way,  and  went  to  write  his  letter  of 
report  to  his  friend  Cristoforo.  "  An  extraordinary  character, 
that  Signora!  "  thought  he,  as  he  walked  home.  "  Very  curi- 
ous! But  one  who  knows  the  right  way  to  go  to  work,  can 
make  her  do  whatever  he  pleases.  My  good  friend  Cristoforo 
certainly  does  not  expect  that  I  can  serve  him  so  quickly  and 
so  well.  That  noble  fellow!  There  is  no  help  for  it:  he  must 
always  have  something  in  hand.  But  he  is  doing  good.  It 
is  well  for  him  this  time  that  he  has  found  a  friend  who  has 
brought  the  affair  to  a  good  conclusion  in  a  twinkling,  with- 
out so  much  noise,  so  much  preparation,  so  much  ado.    This 


128  MANZONI 

good  Cristoforo  will  surely  be  satisfied,  and  see  that  even  we 
here  are  good  for  something." 

The  Signora,  who,  in  the  presence  of  a  Capuchin  of  ad- 
vanced age,  had  studied  her  actions  and  words,  now,  when  left 
tete-d-tete  with  an  inexperienced  country  girl,  no  longer  at- 
tempted to  restrain  herself;  and  her  conversation  became  by 
degrees  so  strange,  that,  instead  of  relating  it,  we  think  it 
better  briefly  to  narrate  the  previous  history  of  this  unhappy 
person:  so  much,  that  is,  as  will  suffice  to  account  for  the  un- 
usual and  mysterious  conduct  we  have  witnessed  in  her,  and 
to  explain  the  motives  of  her  behaviour  in  the  facts  which  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  relate. 

She  was  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Prince  ....  a 
Milanese  nobleman,  who  was  esteemed  one  of  the  richest  men 
of  the  city.  But  the  unbounded  idea  he  entertained  of  his 
title  made  his  property  appear  scarcely  sufficient,  nay,  even 
too  limited  to  maintain  a  proper  appearance ;  and  all  his  atten- 
tion was  turned  toward  keeping  it,  at  least,  such  as  it  was,  in 
one  line,  so  far  as  it  depended  upon  himself.  How  many  chil- 
dren he  had  does  not  appear  from  history:  it  merely  records 
that  he  had  designed  all  the  younger  branches  of  both  sexes  for 
the  cloister,  that  he  might  leave  his  property  entire  to  the  eld- 
est son,  destined  to  perpetuate  the  family:  that  is,  bring  up 
children  that  he  might  torment  himself  in  tormenting  them 
after  his  father's  example.  Our  unhappy  Signora  was  yet  un- 
born when  her  condition  was  irrevocably  determined  upon. 
It  only  remained  to  decide  whether  she  should  be  a  monk  or 
a  nun,  a  decision,  for  which,  not  her  assent,  but  her  presence, 
was  required.  When  she  was  born,  the  Prince,  her  father, 
wishing  to  give  her  a  name  that  would  always  immediately 
suggest  the  idea  of  a  cloister,  and  which  had  been  borne  by 
a  saint  of  high  family,  called  her  Gertrude.  Dolls  dressed  like 
nuns  were  the  first  playthings  put  into  her  hands;  then  im- 
ages in  nuns'  habits,  accompanying  the  gift  with  admonitions 
to  prize  them  highly,  as  very  precious  things,  and  with  that 
af^rmative  interrogation,  "  Beautiful,  eh?  "  When  the  Prince, 
or  the  Princess,  or  the  young  prince,  the  only  one  of  the  sons 
brought  up  at  home,  would  represent  the  happy  prospects  of 
the  child,  it  seemed  as  if  they  could  find  no  other  way  of  ex- 
pressing their  ideas  than  by  the  words,  *'  What  a  lady-ab- 
bess!" No  one,  however,  directly  said  to  her,  "You  must 
become  a  nun."  It  was  an  intention  understood  and  touched 
upon  incidentally  in  every  conversation  relating  to  her  future 
destiny.  If  at  any  time  the  little  Gertrude  indulged  in  rebel- 
lious or  imperious  behaviour,  to  which  her  natural  disposition 


THE    BETROTHED 


129 


easily  inclined  her,  "  You  are  a  naughty  little  girl,"  they 
would  say  to  her;  **  this  behaviour  is  very  unbecoming. 
When  you  are  a  lady-abbess,  you  shall  then  command  with 
the  rod:  you  can  then  do  as  you  please."  On  another  oc- 
casion, the  Prince  reproving  her  for  her  too  free  and  familiar 
manners,  into  which  she  easily  fell:  "Hey!  hey!"  he  cried; 
**  they  are  not  becoming  to  one  of  your  rank.  If  you  wish 
some  day  to  engage  the  respect  that  is  due  to  you,  learn  from 
henceforth  to  be  more  reserved:  remember  you  ought  to  be 
in  everything  the  first  in  the  monastery,  because  you  carry 
your  rank  wherever  you  go." 

Such  language  imbued  the  mind  of  the  little  girl  with  the 
implicit  idea  that  she  was  to  be  a  nun;  but  her  father's  words 
had  more  effect  upon  her  than  all  the  others  put  together. 
The  manners  of  the  Prince  were  habitually  those  of  an  austere 
master,  but  when  treating  of  the  future  prospects  of  his  chil- 
dren, there  shone  forth  in  every  word  and  tone  an  immovabil- 
ity of  resolution  which  inspired  the  idea  of  a  fatal  necessity. 

At  six  years  of  age,  Gertrude  was  placed  for  education,  and 
still  more  as  a  preparatory  step  toward  the  vocation  imposed 
upon  her,  in  the  monastery  where  we  have  seen  her;  and  the 
selection  of  the  place  was  not  without  design.  The  worthy 
guide  of  the  two  women  has  said  that  the  father  of  the  Si- 
gnora  was  the  first  man  in  Monza;  and,  comparing  this  testi- 
mony, whatever  it  may  be  worth,  with  some  other  indications 
which  our  anonymous  author  unintentionally  suffers  to  es- 
cape here  and  there,  we  may  very  easily  assert  that  he  was  the 
feudal  head  of  that  country.  However  it  may  be,  he  enjoyed 
here  very  great  authority,  and  thought  that  here,  better  than 
elsewhere,  his  daughter  would  be  treated  with  that  distinction 
and  deference  which  might  induce  her  to  choose  this  monas- 
tery as  her  perpetual  abode.  Nor  was  he  deceived:  the  ab- 
bess and  several  intriguing  nuns — who  had  the  management  of 
affairs,  and  finding  themselves  entangled  in  some  disputes  with 
another  monastery,  and  with  a  noble  family  of  the  country, 
were  very  glad  of  the  acquisition  of  such  a  support — received 
with  much  gratitude  the  honour  bestowed  upon  them,  and 
fully  entered  into  the  intentions  of  the  Prince  concerning  the 
permanent  settlement  of  his  daughter;  intentions  on  every 
account  entirely  consonant  with  their  interests.  Immediately 
on  Gertrude's  entering  the  monastery,  she  was  called,  by  An-  "P  / 
tonomasia,  the  Signorina.  A  separate  place  was  assigned  h^  *  ' 
at  table,  and  a  private  sleeping  apartment;  her  conduct  was 
proposed  as  an  example  to  others;  indulgences  and  caresses 
were  bestowed  upon  her  without  end,  accompanied  with  that 

9 


I30 


MANZONI 


respectful  familiarity  so  attractive  to  children,  when  observed 
in  those  whom  they  see  treating  other  children  with  an  habit- 
ual air  of  superiority.  Not  that  all  the  nuns  had  conspired  to 
draw  the  poor  child  into  the  snare;  many  there  were  of  sim- 
ple and  undesigning  minds,  who  would  have  shrunk  with  horror 
from  the  thought  of  sacrificing  a  child  to  interested  views;  but 
all  of  them  being  intent  on  their  several  individual  occupa- 
tions, some  did  not  notice  all  these  manoeuvres,  others  did  not 
discern  how  dishonest  they  were;  some  abstained  from  look- 
ing into  the  matter,  and  others  were  silent  rather  than  give 
useless  offence.  There  was  one,  too,  who,  remembering  how 
she  had  been  induced  by  similar  arts  to  do  what  she  afterward 
repented  of,  felt  a  deep  compassion  for  the  poor  little  inno- 
cent, and  showed  that  compassion  by  bestowing  on  her  tender 
and  melancholy  caresses,  which  she  was  far  from  suspecting 
were  tending  toward  the  same  result;  and  thus  the  affair  pro- 
ceeded. Perhaps  it  might  have  gone  on  thus  to  the  end,  if 
Gertrude  had  been  the  only  little  girl  in  the  monastery;  but, 
among  her  school-fellows,  there  were  some  who  knew  they 
were  designed  for  marriage.  The  little  Gertrude,  brought  up 
with  high  ideas  of  her  superiority,  talked  very  magnificently 
of  her  future  destiny  as  abbess  and  principal  of  the  monastery; 
she  wished  to  be  an  object  of  envy  to  the  others  on  every  ac- 
count, and  saw  with  astonishment  and  vexation  that  some  of 
them  paid  no  attention  to  all  her  boasting.  To  the  majestic, 
but  circumscribed  and  cold,  images  the  headship  of  a  monas- 
tery could  furnish,  they  opposed  the  varied  and  bright  pic- 
tures of  a  husband,  guests,  routs,  towns,  tournaments,  reti- 
nues, dress,  and  equipages.  Such  glittering  visions  roused 
in  Gertrude's  mind  that  excitement  and  ardour  which  a 
large  basket-full  of  freshly-gathered  flowers  would  produce, 
if  placed  before  a  bee-hive.  Her  parents  and  teachers  had 
cultivated  and  increased  her  natural  vanity,  to  reconcile  her 
to  the  cloister;  but  when  this  passion  was  excited  by  ideas  so 
much  calculated  to  stimulate  it,  she  quickly  entered  into  them 
with  a  more  lively  and  spontaneous  ardour.  That  she  might 
not  be  below  her  companions,  and  influenced  at  the  same  time 
by  her  new  turn  of  mind,  she  replied  that,  at  the  time  of  deci- 
sion, no  one  could  compel  her  to  take  the  veil  without  her  con- 
sent; that  she,  too,  could  marry,  live  in  a  palace,  enjoy  the, 
world,  and  that  better  than  any  of  them;  that  she  could  if  she 
wished  it,  that  she  zvould  if  she  wished  it ;  and  that,  in  fact,  she 
did  wish  it.  The  idea  of  the  necessity  of  her  consent,  which 
hitherto  had  been,  as  it  were,  unnoticed,  and  hidden  in  a  cor- 
ner of  her  mind,  now  unfolded  and  displayed  itself  in  all  its 


THE    BETROTHED  131 

importance.  On  every  occasion  she  called  it  to  her  aid,  that 
she  might  enjoy  in  tranquillity  the  images  of  a  self-chosen  fu- 
ture. Together  with  this  idea,  however,  there  invariably  ap- 
peared another;  that  the  refusal  of  this  consent  involved  re- 
bellion against  her  father,  who  already  believed  it,  or  pretend- 
ed to  believe  it,  a  decided  thing;  and  at  this  remembrance,  the 
child's  mind  was  very  far  from  feeling  the  confidence  which 
her  words  proclaimed.  She  would  then  compare  herself  with 
her  companions,  whose  confidence  was  of  a  far  different  kind, 
and  experienced  lamentably  that  envy  of  their  condition 
which,  at  first,  she  endeavoured  to  awaken  in  them.  From 
envy  she  changed  to  hatred ;  which  she  displayed  in  contempt, 
rudeness,  and  sarcastic  speeches;  while,  sometimes,  the  con- 
formity of  her  inclinations  and  hopes  with  theirs,  suppressed 
her  spite,  and  created  in  her  an  apparent  and  transient  friend- 
ship. At  times,  longing  to  enjoy  something  real  and  present, 
she  would  feel  a  complacency  in  the  distinctions  accorded  to 
her,  and  make  others  sensible  of  this  superiority;  and  then, 
again,  unable  to  tolerate  the  solitude  of  her  fears  and  desires, 
she  would  go  in  search  of  her  companions,  her  haughtiness  ap- 
peased, almost,  indeed,  imploring  of  them  kindness,  counsel, 
and  encouragement.  In  the  midst  of  such  pitiable  warfare 
wath  herself  and  others,  she  passed  her  childhood,  and  entered 
upon  that  critical  age  at  which  an  almost  mysterious  power 
seems  to  take  possession  of  the  soul,  arousing,  refreshing,  in- 
vigorating all  the  inclinations  and  ideas,  and  sometimes  trans- 
forming them,  or  turning  them  into  some  unlooked-for  chan- 
nel. That  which,  until  now,  Gertrude  had  most  distinctly 
figured  in  these  dreams  of  the  future,  was  external  splendour 
and  pomp;  a  something  soothing  and  kindly,  which,  from  the 
first,  was  lightly,  and,  as  it  were,  mistily,  diffused  over  her 
mind,  now  began  to  spread  itself  and  predominate  in  her  im- 
agination. It  took  possession  of  the  most  secret  recesses  of 
her  heart, as  of  a  gorgeous  retreat;  hither  she  retired  from  pres- 
ent objects;  here  she  entertained  various  personages  strange- 
ly compounded  of  the  confused  remembrances  of  childhood, 
tlie  little  she  had  seen  of  the  external  world,  and  what  she  had 
gathered  in  conversation  with  her  companions;  she  enter- 
tained herself  with  them,  talked  to  them,  and  replied  in  their 
name;  here  she  gave  commands,  and  here  she  received  hom- 
age of  every  kind.  At  times,  the  thoughts  of  religion  would 
come  to  disturb  these  brilliant  and  toilsome  revels.  But  re- 
ligion, such  as  it  had  been  taught  to  this  poor  girl,  and  such  as 
she  had  received  it,  did  not  prohibit  pride,  but  rather  sancti- 
fied it,  and  proposed  it  as  a  means  of  obtaining  earthly  felicity. 


132 


MANZONI 


Robbed  thus  of  its  essence,  it  was  no  longer  religion,  but  a 
phantom  like  the  rest.  In  the  intervals  in  which  this  phan- 
tom occupied  the  first  place,  and  ruled  in  Gertrude's  fancy, 
the  unhappy  girl,  oppressed  by  confused  terrors,  and  urged 
by  an  indefinite  idea  of  duty,  imagined  that  her  repugnance  to 
the  cloister,  and  her  resistance  to  the  wish  of  her  superiors  in 
the  choice  of  her  state  of  life,  was  a  fault;  and  she  resolved  in 
her  heart  to  expiate  it,  by  voluntarily  taking  the  veil. 

It  was  a  rule,  that,  before  a  young  person  could  be  re- 
ceived as  a  nun,  she  should  be  examined  by  an  ecclesiastic, 
called  the  vicar  of  the  nuns,  or  by  some  one  deputed  by  him; 
that  it  might  be  seen  whether  the  lot  were  her  deliberate 
choice  or  not;  and  this  examination  could  not  take  place  for 
a  year  after  she  had,  by  a  written  request,  signified  her  desire 
to  the  vicar.  Those  nuns  who  had  taken  upon  themselves 
the  sad  office  of  inducing  Gertrude  to  bind  herself  for  ever 
with  the  least  possible  consciousness  of  what  she  was  doing, 
seized  one  of  the  moments  we  have  described  to  persuade  h«r 
to  write  and  sign  such  a  memorial.  And,  in  order  the  more 
easily  to  persuade  her  to  such  a  course,  they  failed  not  to 
affirm  and  impress  upon  her,  what,  indeed,  was  quite  true,  that, 
after  all,  it  was  a  mere  formality,  which  could  have  no  efifect, 
without  other  and  posterior  steps,  depending  entirely  upon  her 
own  will.  Nevertheless  the  memorial  had  scarcely  reached 
its  destination,  before  Gertrude  repented  having  written  it. 
Then  she  repented  of  these  repentances;  and  thus  days  and 
months  were  spent  in  an  incessant  alternation  of  wishes  and 
regrets.  For  a  long  while  she  concealed  this  act  from  her 
companions;  sometimes  from  fear  of  exposing  her  good  reso- 
lutions to  opposition  and  contradiction,  at  others  from  shame 
at  revealing  her  error;  but,  at  last,  the  desire  of  unburdening 
her  mind,  and  of  seeking  advice  and  encouragement,  con- 
quered. 

Another  rule  was  this :  that  a  young  girl  was  not  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  this  examination  upon  the  course  of  life  she  had 
chosen,  until  she  had  resided  for  at  least  a  month  out  of  the 
convent  where  she  had  been  educated.  A  year  had  almost 
passed  since  the  presentation  of  this  memorial;  and  it  had 
been  signified  to  Gertrude  that  she  would  shortly  be  taken 
from  the  monastery,  and  sent  to  her  father's  house,  for  this  one 
month,  there  to  take  all  the  necessary  steps  toward  the  com- 
pletion of  the  work  she  had  really  begun.  The  Prince,  and 
the  rest  of  the  family,  considered  it  an  assured  thing,  as  if  it 
had  already  taken  place.  Not  so,  however,  his  daughter;  in- 
stead of  taking  fresh  steps,  she  was  engaged  in  considering 


THE   BETROTHED  I33 

how  she  could  withdraw  the  first.  In  her  perplexity,  she  re- 
solved to  open  her  mind  to  one  of  her  companions,  the  most 
sincere  and  always  the  readiest  to  give  spirited  advice.  She  ad- 
vised Gertrude  to  inform  her  father,  by  letter,  that  she  had 
changed  her  mind,  since  she  had  not  the  courage  to  pronounce 
to  his  face,  at  the  proper  time,  a  bold  "  I  will  not."  And  as 
gratuitous  advice  in  this  world  is  very  rare,  the  counsellor 
made  Gertrude  pay  for  this  by  abundance  of  raillery  upon  her 
want  of  spirit.  The  letter  was  agreed  upon  with  three  or  four 
confidantes,  written  in  private,  and  despatched  by  means  of 
many  deeply-studied  artifices.  Gertrude  waited  with  great 
anxiety  for  a  reply;  but  none  came;  excepting  that,  a  few  days 
afterward,  the  Abbess,  taking  her  aside,  with  an  air  of  mystery, 
displeasure,  and  compassion,  let  fall  some  obscure  hints  about 
the  great  anger  of  her  father,  and  a  wrong  step  she  must  have 
been  taking;  leaving  her  to  understand,  however,  that  if  she 
behaved  well,  she  might  still  hope  that  all  would  be  forgotten. 
T^he  poor  young  girl  understood  it,  and  dared  not  venture  to 
ask  any  further  explanation. 

At  last,  the  day  so  much  dreaded,  and  so  ardently  wished 
for,  arrived.  Although  Gertrude  knew  well  enough  that  she 
was  going  to  a  great  struggle,  yet  to  leave  the  monastery,  to 
pass  the  bounds  of  those  walls  in  which  she  had  been  for  eight 
years  immured,  to  traverse  the  open  country  in  a  carriage,  to 
see  once  more  the  city  and  her  home,  filled  her  with  sensations 
of  tumultuous  joy.  As  to  the  struggle,  with  the  direction  of 
her  confidantes,  she  had  already  taken  her  measures,  and  con- 
certed her  plans.  Either  they  will  force  me,  thought  she,  and 
then  I  will  be  immovable — I  will  be  humble  and  respectful, 
but  will  refuse;  the  chief  point  is  not  to  pronounce  another 
"  Yes,"  and  I  will  not  pronounce  it.  Or  they  will  catch  me 
with  good  words;  and  I  will  be  better  than  they;  I  will  wxep, 
I  will  implore,  I  will  move  them  to  pity;  at  last,  will  only  en- 
treat that  I  may  not  be  sacrificed.  But,  as  it  often  happens  in 
similar  cases  of  foresight,  neither  one  nor  the  other  supposi- 
tion was  realized.  Days  passed,  and  neither  her  father,  nor 
any  one  else,  spoke  to  her  about  the  petition,  or  the  recanta- 
tion; and  no  proposal  was  made  to  her,  with  either  coaxing 
or  threatening.  Her  parents  were  serious,  sad,  and  morose, 
toward  her,  without  ever  giving  a  reason  for  such  behaviour. 
It  was  only  to  be  understood  that  they  regarded  her  as  faulty 
and  unworthy;  a  mysterious  anathema  seemed  to  hang  over 
her,  and  divide  her  from  the  rest  of  her  family,  merely  suffer- 
ing so  much  intercourse  as  was  necessary  to  make  her  feel 
her  subjection.    Seldom,  and  only  at  certain  fixed  hours,  was 


134 


MANZONI 


she  admitted  to  the  company  of  her  parents  and  elder  brother. 
In  the  conversation  of  these  three  there  appeared  to  reign  a 
great  confidence,  which  rendered  the  exclusion  of  Gertrude 
doubly  sensible  and  painful.  No  one  addressed  her;  and  if 
she  ventured  timidly  to  make  a  remark,  unless  very  evidently 
called  for,  her  words  were  either  unnoticed,  or  were  responded 
to  by  a  careless,  contemptuous,  or  severe  look.  If  unable  any 
longer  to  endure  so  bitter  and  humiliating  a  distinction,  she 
sought  and  endeavoured  to  mingle  with  the  family,  and  im- 
plored a  little  affection,  she  soon  heard  some  indirect  but 
clear  hint  thrown  out  about  her  choice  of  a  monastic  life,  and 
was  given  to  understand  that  there  was  one  way  of  regain- 
ing the  affection  of  the  family;  and  since  she  w^ould  not 
accept  of  it  on  these  conditions,  she  was  obliged  to  draw  back, 
to  refuse  the  first  advances  toward  the  kindness  she  so  much 
desired,  and  to  continue  in  her  state  of  excommunication; 
continue  in  it,  too,  w4th  a  certain  appearance  of  being  to 
blame. 

Such  impressions  from  surrounding  objects  painfully  con- 
tradicted the  bright  visions  with  which  Gertrude  had  been 
so  much  occupied,  and  which  she  still  secretly  indulged  in  her 
heart.  She  had  hoped  that,  in  her  splendid  and  much-fre- 
quented home,  she  should  have  enjoyed  at  least  some  real 
taste  of  the  pleasures  she  had  so  long  imagined;  but  she  found 
herself  woefully  deceived.  The  confinement  was  as  strict  and 
close  at  home  as  in  the  convent;  to  walk  out  for  recreation 
was  never  even  spoken  of;  and  a  gallery  that  led  from  the 
house  to  an  adjoining  church,  obviated  the  sole  necessity  there 
might  have  been  to  go  into  the  street.  The  company  was 
more  uninteresting,  more  scarce,  and  less  varied  than  in  the 
monastery.  At  every  announcement  of  a  visitor,  Gertrude 
was  obliged  to  go  up-stairs,  and  remain  with  some  old  woman 
in  the  service  of  the  family;  and  here  she  dined  whenever 
there  was  company.  The  domestic  servants  concurred  in 
behaviour  and  language  with  the  example  and  intentions  of 
their  master;  and  Gertrude,  w^ho  by  inclination  would  have 
treated  them  with  ladylike  unaffected  familiarity;  and  who, 
in  the  rank  in  which  she  was  placed,  would  have  esteemed  it 
a  favour  if  they  had  shown  her  any  little  mark  of  kindness  as 
an  equal,  and  even  have  stooped  to  ask  it,  was  now  humbled 
and  annoyed  at  being  treated  v/ith  a  manifest  indifference,  al- 
though accompanied  by  a  slight  obsequiousness  of  formality. 
She  could  not,  how^ever,  but  observe,  that  one  of  these  serv- 
ants, a  page,  appeared  to  bear  her  a  respect  very  different  to 
the  others,  and  to  feel  a  peculiar  kind  of  compassion  for  her. 


THE    BETROTHED 


135 


The  behaviour  of  this  youth  approached  more  nearly  than 
anything  she  had  yet  seen  to  the  state  of  things  that  Gertrude 
had  pictured  to  her  imagination,  and  more  resembled  the  do- 
ings of  her  ideal  characters.  By  degrees,  a  strange  transfor- 
mation was  discernible  in  the  manners  of  the  young  girl, 
there  appeared  a  new  tranquillity,  and  at  the  same  time  a  rest- 
lessness, differing  from  her  usual  disquietude;  her  conduct 
was  that  of  one  who  had  found  a  treasure  which  oppresses 
him,  which  he  incessantly  watches,  and  hides  from  the  view 
of  others.  Gertrude  kept  her  eyes  on  this  page  more  closely 
than  ever;  and,  however  it  came  to  pass,  she  was  surprised 
one  unlucky  morning  by  a  chamber-maid,  while  secretly 
folding  up  a  letter,  in  which  it  would  have  been  better  had 
she  written  nothing.  After  a  brief  altercation,  the  maid  got 
possession  of  the  letter,  and  carried  it  to  her  master.  The 
terror  of  Gertrude  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  may  be  more 
easily  imagined  than  described.  It  was  her  father;  he  was 
irritated,  and  she  felt  herself  guilty.  But  when  he  stood  be- 
fore her  with  that  frowning  brow,  and  the  ill-fated  letter  in 
his  hand,  she  would  gladly  have  been  a  hundred  feet  under- 
ground, not  to  say  in  a  cloister.  His  words  were  few,  but  ter- 
rible; the  punishment  named  at  the  time  was  only  to  be  con- 
fined in  her  own  room  under  the  charge  of  the  maid  who  had 
made  the  discovery;  but  this  was  merely  a  foretaste,  a  tem- 
porary provision;  he  threatened,  and  left  a  vague  promise  of 
some  other  obscure,  undefined,  and  therefore  more  dreadful 
punishment. 

The  page  was,  of  course,  immediately  dismissed,  and  was 
menaced  with  something  terrible,  if  ever  he  should  breathe  a 
syllable  about  the  past.  In  giving  him  this  intimation,  the 
Prince  seconded  it  with  two  solemn  blows,  to  associate  in  his 
mind  with  this  adventure  a  remembrance  that  would  effectu- 
ally remove  every  temptation  to  make  a  boast  of  it.  Some 
kind  of  pretext  to  account  for  the  dismissal  of  a  page  was  not 
diiificult  to  find;  as  to  the  young  lady,  it  was  reported  that  she 
was  ill. 

She  was  now  left  to  her  fears,  her  shame,  her  remorse,  and 
her  dread  of  the  future;  with  the  sole  company  of  this  woman, 
whom  she  hated  as  the  witness  of  her  guilt,  and  the  cause  of 
her  disgrace.  She,  in  her  turn,  hated  Gertrude,  by  whom  she 
was  reduced,  she  knew  not  for  how  long,  to  the  wearisome  life 
of  a  jailer,  and  had  become  for  ever  the  guardian  of  a  danger- 
ous secret. 

The  first  confused  tumult  of  these  feelings  subsided  bv 
degrees;  but  each  remembrance  recurring  by  turns  to  her 


136 


MANZONI 


mind,  was  nourished  there,  and  remained  to  torment  her  more 
distinctly,  and  at  leisure.  Whatever  could  the  punishment 
be,  so  mysteriously  threatened?  Many,  various,  and  strange, 
were  the  ideas  that  suggested  themselves  to  the  ardent  and 
inexperienced  imagination  of  Gertrude.  The  prospect  that 
appeared  most  probable  was,  that  she  would  be  taken  back  to 
the  monastery  at  Monza,  no  longer  to  appear  as  the  Signorina, 
but  as  a  guilty  person,  to  be  shut  up  there — who  knew  how 
long!  who  knew  with  what  kind  of  treatment!  Among  the 
many  annoyances  of  such  a  course,  perhaps  the  most  annoy- 
ing was  the  dread  of  the  shame  she  should  feel.  The  expres- 
sions, the  words,  the  very  commas  of  the  unfortunate  letter, 
were  turned  over  and  over  in  her  memory:  she  fancied  them 
noticed  and  weighed  by  a  reader  so  unexpected,  so  different 
from  the  one  to  whom  they  were  destined  in  reply;  she  im- 
agined that  they  might  have  come  under  the  view  of  her 
mother,  her  brother,  or  indeed  any  one  else;  and  by  com- 
parison, all  the  rest  seemed  to  her  a  mere  nothing.  The  im- 
age of  him  who  had  been  the  primary  cause  of  all  this  offence 
failed  not  also  frequently  to  beset  the  poor  recluse;  and  it  is 
impossible  to  describe  the  strange  contrast  this  phantasm  pre- 
sented to  those  around  her;  so  dissimilar,  so  serious,  reserved, 
and  threatening.  But,  since  she  could  not  separate  his  image 
from  theirs,  nor  turn  for  a  moment  to  those  transient  grati- 
fications, without  her  present  sorrows,  as  the  consequence 
of  them,  suggesting  themselves  to  her  mind,  she  began,  by  de- 
grees, to  recall  them  less  frequently,  to  repel  the  remembrance 
of  them,  and  wean  herself  from  such  thoughts.  She  no  longer 
willingly  indulged  in  the  bright  and  splendid  fancies  of  her 
earlier  days;  they  were  too  much  opposed  to  her  real  circum- 
stances, and  to  every  probability  for  the  future.  The  only  cas- 
tle in  which  Gertrude  could  conceive  a  tranquil  and  honour- 
able retreat,  which  was  not  in  the  air,  was  the  monastery,  if 
she  could  make  up  her  mind  to  enter  it  for  ever.  Such  a  reso- 
lution, she  could  not  doubt,  would  have  repaired  everything, 
atoned  for  every  fault,  and  changed  her  condition  in  a  mo- 
ment. Opposed  to  this  proposal,  it  is  true,  rose  up  the  plans 
and  hopes  of  her  whole  childhood:  but  times  were  changed; 
and  in  the  depths  to  which  Gertrude  had  fallen,  and  in  com- 
parison of  what,  at  times,  she  so  much  dreaded,  the  condition 
of  a  nun,  respected,  revered,  and  obeyed,  appeared  to  her  a 
bright  prospect.  Two  sentiments  of  very  different  character, 
indeed,  contributed,  at  intervals,  to  overcome  her  former  aver- 
sion: sometimes  remorse  for  a  fault,  and  a  capricious  sensi- 
bility of  devotion;    and  at  other  times,  her  pride  embittered 


THE   BETROTHED 


137 


and  irritated  by  the  manners  of  her  jailer,  who  (often,  it  must 
be  confessed,  provoked  to  it)  revenged  herself  now  by  terrify- 
ing her  with  the  prospect  of  the  threatened  punishment,  or 
taunting  her  with  the  disgrace  of  her  fault.  When,  however, 
she  chose  to  be  benign,  she  would  assume  a  tone  of  protection, 
still  more  odious  than  insult.  On  these  different  occasions, 
the  wish  that  Gertrude  felt  to  escape  from  her  clutches,  and 
to  raise  herself  to  a  condition  above  either  her  anger  or  pity, 
became  so  vivid  and  urgent,  that  it  made  everything  which 
could  lead  to  such  an  end  appear  pleasant  and  agreeable. 

At  the  end  of  four  or  five  long  days  of  confinement,  Ger- 
trude, disgusted  and  exasperated  beyond  measure  by  one  of 
these  sallies  of  her  guardian,  went  and  sat  down  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  remained 
for  some  time  secretly  indulging  her  rage.  She  then  felt  an 
overbearing  longing  to  see  some  other  faces,  to  hear  some 
other  words,  to  be  treated  differently.  She  thought  of  her 
father,  of  her  family;  and  the  idea  made  her  shrink  back  in 
horror.  But  she  remembered  that  it  only  depended  upon  her 
to  make  them  her  friends;  and  this  remembrance  awakened 
a  momentary  joy.  Then  there  followed  a  confused  and  un- 
usual sorrow  for  her  fault,  and  an  equal  desire  to  expiate  it. 
Not  that  her  will  was  already  determined  upon  such  a  resolu- 
tion, but  she  had  never  before  approached  it  so  near.  She 
rose  from  her  seat,  went  to  the  table,  took  up  the  fatal  pen, 
and  wrote  a  letter  to  her  father,  full  of  enthusiasm  and  humil- 
iation, of  affliction  and  hope,  imploring  his  pardon,  and  show- 
ing herself  indefinitely  ready  to  do  anything  that  would  please 
him  who  alone  could  grant  it. 


CHAPTER   X 

THERE  are  times  when  the  mind,  of  the  young  espe- 
cially, is  so  disposed,  that  any  external  influence,  how- 
ever slight,  suffices  to  call  forth  whatever  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  virtuous  self-sacrifice;  as  a  scarcely-ex- 
panded flower  abandons  itself  negligently  to  its  fragile  stem, 
ready  to  yield  its  fragrance  to  the  first  breath  of  the  zephyrs 
that  float  around.  These  moments,  which  others  should  re- 
gard with  reverential  awe,  are  exactly  those  which  the  wily  and 
interested  eagerly  watch  for,  and  seize  with  avidity,  to  fetter  an 
unguarded  will. 

On  the  perusal  of  this  letter  the  Prince  *  *  *  *  instantly 
saw  a  door  opened  to  the  fulfilment  of  his  early  and  still  cher- 
ished views.  He  therefore  sent  to  Gertrude  to  come  to  him, 
and  prepared  to  strike  the  iron  while  it  was  hot.  Gertrude 
had  no  sooner  made  her  appearance,  than,  without  raising  her 
eyes  toward  her  father,  she  threw  herself  upon  her  knees, 
scarcely  able  to  articulate  the  word  "  Pardon."  The  Prince 
beckoned  to  her  to  rise,  and  then,  in  a  voice  little  calculated 
to  reassure  her,  replied,  that  it  was  not  sufficient  to  desire  and 
solicit  forgiveness,  for  that  was  easy  and  natural  enough  to 
one  who  had  been  convicted  of  a  fault,  and  dreaded  its  pun- 
ishment; that,  in  short,  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  de- 
serve it.  Gertrude,  in  a  subdued  and  trembling  voice,  asked 
what  she  must  do.  To  this  question  the  Prince  (for  we  can 
not  find  in  our  heart  at  this  moment  to  give  him  the  title  of 
father)  made  no  direct  reply,  but  proceeded  to  speak  at  some 
length  on  Gertrude's  fault,  in  words  which  grated  upon  the 
feelings  of  the  poor  girl  like  the  drawing  of  a  rough  hand 
over  a  wound.  He  then  went  on  to  say,  that  even  if  ...  . 
supposing  he  ever  ....  had  had  at  the  first  any  intention  of 
settling  her  in  the  world,  she  herself  had  now  opposed  an  in- 
superable obstacle  to  such  a  plan;  since  a  man  of  honour,  as 
he  was,  could  never  bring  himself  to  give  to  any  gentleman 
a  daughter  who  had  shown  such  a  specimen  of  her  character. 
His  wretched  auditor  was  completely  overwhelmed;  and  then 
the  Prince,  gradually  softening  his  voice  and  language,  pro- 

138 


THE    BETROTHED 


139 


ceeded  to  say,  that  for  every  fault  there  was  a  remedy  and  a 
hope  of  mercy;  that  hers  was  one  the  remedy  for  which  was 
very  distinctly  indicated;  that  she  ought  to  see  in  this  sad 
event  a  warning,  as  it  were,  that  a  worldly  life  was  too  full  of 
danger  for  her  .... 

"Ah,  yes!"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  excited  by  fear,  sub- 
dued by  a  sense  of  shame,  and  overcome  at  the  instant  by  a 
momentary  tenderness  of  spirit. 

"Ah;  you  see  it  too,"  replied  the  Prince,  instantly  taking 
up  her  words.  "  Well,  let  us  say  no  more  of  what  is  past: 
all  is  cancelled.  You  have  taken  the  only  honourable  and 
suitable  course  that  remained  for  you;  but,  since  you  have 
chosen  it  willingly  and  cheerfully,  it  rests  with  me  to  make  it 
pleasant  to  you  in  every  possible  way.  I  have  the  power  of 
turning  it  to  your  advantage,  and  giving  all  the  merit  of  the 
action  to  yourself,  and  I'll  engage  to  do  it  for  you."  So  say- 
ing, he  rang  a  little  bell  that  stood  on  the  table,  and  said  to 
the  servant  who  answered  it — "  The  Princess  and  the  young 
Prince  immediately."  Then  turning  to  Gertrude,  he  con- 
tinued: "  I  wish  them  to  share  in  my  satisfaction  at  once; 
and  I  wish  you  immediately  to  be  treated  by  all  as  is  fit  and 
proper.  You  have  experienced  a  little  of  the  severe  parent, 
but  from  henceforth  you  shall  find  me  an  affectionate  father." 

Gertrude  stood  thunderstruck  at  these  words.  One  mo- 
ment she  wondered  how  that  *'  yes,"  which  had  escaped  her 
lips,  could  be  made  to  mean  so  much:  then  she  thought,  was 
there  no  way  of  retracting — of  restricting  the  sense;  but  the 
Prince's  conviction  seemed  so  unshaken,  his  joy  so  sensitively 
jealous,  and  his  benignity  so  conditional,  that  Gertrude  dared 
not  utter  a  word  to  disturb  them  in  the  slightest  degree. 

The  parties  summoned  quickly  made  their  appearance, 
and,  on  seeing  Gertrude,  regarded  her  with  an  expression  of 
surprise  and  uncertainty.  But  the  Prince,  with  a  cheerful  and 
loving  countenance,  which  immediately  met  with  an  answer- 
ing look  from  them,  said:  ''Behold  the  wandering  sheep: 
and  I  intend  this  to  be  the  last  word  that  shall  awaken  sad  re- 
membrances. Behold  the  consolation  of  the  family!  Ger- 
trude no  longer  needs  advisers,  for  she  has  voluntarily  chosen 
wdiat  we  desired  for  her  good.  She  has  determined — she  has 
given  me  to  understand  that  she  has  determined  .  .  .  ." 
Here  Gertrude  raised  toward  her  father  a  look  between  terror 
and  supplication,  as  if  imploring  him  to  pause,  but  he  con- 
tinued boldly — ''  that  she  has  determined  to  take  the  veil." 

"  Brava!  well  done! "  exclaimed  the  mother  and  son, 
turning  at  the  same  time  to  embrace  Gertrude,  who  received 


140 


MANZONI 


these  congratulations  with  tears,  which  were  interpreted  as 
tears  of  satisfaction.  The  Prince  then  expatiated  upon  what  he 
would  do  to  render  the  situation  of  his  daughter  pleasant,  and 
even  splendid.  He  spoke  of  the  distinction  with  which  she 
would  be  regarded  in  the  monastery  and  the  surrounding 
country:  that  she  would  be  like  a  princess,  the  representative 
of  the  family;  that,  as  soon  as  ever  her  age  would  allow  of  it, 
she  would  be  raised  to  the  first  dignity,  and  in  the  mean- 
while would  be  under  subjection  only  in  name.  The  Princess 
and  the  young  Prince  renewed  their  congratulations  and 
applauses,  while  poor  Gertrude  stood  as  if  possessed  by  a 
dream. 

*'  We  had  better  fix  the  day  for  going  to  Monza  to  make 
our  request  of  the  Abbess,"  said  the  Prince.  "  How  pleased 
she  will  be !  I  venture  to  say  that  all  the  monastery  will  know 
how  to  estimate  the  honour  which  Gertrude  does  them.  Like- 
wise ....  but  why  not  go  this  very  day?  Gertrude  will  be 
glad  to  take  an  airing." 

''  Let  us  go,  then,"  said  the  Princess. 

"  I  will  go  and  give  orders,"  said  the  young  Prince. 

"  But  .  .  .  ."  suggested  Gertrude  submissively. 

"Softly,  softly,"  replied  the  Prince,  "let  her  decide:  per- 
haps she  does  not  feel  inclined  to-day,  and  would  rather  delay 
till  to-morrow.  Tell  me,  would  you  prefer  to-day  or  to-mor- 
row?" 

"  To-morrow,"  answered  Gertrude  in  a  faint  voice,  think- 
ing it  something  that  she  could  get  a  little  longer  respite. 

"To-morrow,"  pronounced  the  Prince  solemnly;  "she 
has  decided  that  we  go  to-morrow.  In  the  mean  while  I  will 
go  and  ask  the  vicar  of  the  nuns  to  name  a  day  for  the  ex- 
amination." 

No  sooner  said  than  done;  the  Prince  took  his  departure, 
and  absolutely  went  himself  (no  little  act  of  condescension)  to 
the  vicar,  and  obtained  a  promise  that  he  would  attend  her  the 
day  after  to-morrow. 

During  the  remainder  of  this  day  Gertrude  had  not  two 
moments  of  quiet.  She  wished  to  have  calmed  her  mind 
after  so  many  scenes  of  excitement,  to  clear  and  arrange  her 
thoughts,  to  render  an  account  to  herself  of  what  she  had 
done,  and  of  what  she  was  about  to  do,  determine  what  she 
wished,  and,  for  a  moment  at  least,  retard  that  machine,  which, 
once  started,  was  proceeding  so  precipitously;  but  there  was 
no  opening.  Occupations  succeeded  one  another  without  in- 
terruption— one  treading,  as  it  were,  upon  the  heels  of  an- 
other.    Immediately  after  this  solemn  interview,  she  was  con- 


THE   BETROTHED 


141 


ducted  to  her  mother's  dressing-room,  there,  under  her  super- 
intendence, to  be  dressed  and  adorned  by  her  own  waiting- 
maid.  Scarcely  was  this  business  completed  when  dinner  was 
announced.  Gertrude  was  greeted  on  her  way  by  the  bows 
of  the  servants,  who  expressed  their  congratulations  for  her 
recovery;  and,  on  reaching  the  dining-room,  she  found  a  few 
of  their  nearest  friends,  who  had  been  hastily  invited  to  do  her 
honour,  and  to  share  in  the  general  joy  for  the  two  happy 
events — her  restored  health,  and  her  choice  of  a  vocation. 

The  young  bride — as  the  novices  were  usually  distin- 
guished, and  as  Gertrude  was  saluted  on  all  sides  on  her 
first  appearance — the  young  bride  had  enough  to  do  to  reply 
to  all  the  compliments  that  were  addressed  to  her.  She 
was  fully  sensible  that  every  one  of  these  answers  was,  as 
it  were,  an  assent  and  confirmation;  yet  how  could  she  re- 
ply otherwise?  Shortly  after  dinner  came  the  driving  hour, 
and  Gertrude  accompanied  her  mother  in  a  carriage,  with  tw^o 
uncles  who  had  been  among  the  guests.  After  the  usual  tour, 
they  entered  the  Strada  Marina,  which  crossed  the  space  now 
occupied  by  the  public  gardens,  and  was  the  rendezvous  of  the 
gentry  w4io  drove  out  for  recreation  after  the  labours  of  the 
day.  The  uncles  addressed  much  of  their  conversation  to 
Gertrude,  as  was  to  be  expected  on  such  a  day;  and  one  of 
them,  who  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  everybody,  every 
carriage,  every  livery,  and  had  every  moment  something  to 
say  about  Signor  this  and  Lady  that,  suddenly  checked  him- 
self, and  turning  to  his  niece — '*  Ah,  you  young  rogue!  "  ex- 
claimed he;  "  you  are  turning  your  back  on  all  these  follies — 
you  are  one  of  the  saints;  we  poor  worldly  fellows  are  caught 
in  the  snare,  but  you  are  going  to  lead  a  religious  life,  and  go 
to  heaven  in  your  carriage." 

As  evening  approached  they  returned  home,  and  the  serv- 
ants, hastily  descending  to  meet  them  with  lights,  announced 
several  visitors  who  were  awaiting  their  return.  The  rumour 
had  spread,  and  friends  and  relations  crowded  to  pay  their  re- 
spects. On  entering  the  drawing-room  the  young  bride  be- 
came the  idol — the  sole  object  of  attention — the  victim. 
Every  one  wished  to  have  her  to  himself;  one  promised  her 
pleasures — another  visits;  one  spoke  of  Madre  this,  her  re- 
lation— another  of  Madre  that,  an  acquaintance;  one  extolled 
the  climate  of  Monza — another  enlarged  with  great  eloquence 
upon  the  distinctions  she  should  there  enjoy.  Others,  who 
had  not  yet  succeeded  in  approaching  Gertrude  while  thus  be- 
sieged, stood  watching  their  opportunity  to  address  her,  and 
felt  a  kind  of  regret  until  they  had  discharged  their  duty  in  this 


142 


MANZONI 


matter.     By  degrees  the  party  dispersed,  and  Gertrude  re- 
mained alone  with  the  family. 

''  At  last,"  said  the  Prince,  ''  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing my  daughter  treated  as  becomes  her  rank.  I  must  confess 
that  she  has  conducted  herself  very  well,  and  has  shown  that 
she  will  not  be  prevented  making  the  first  figure,  and  main- 
taining the  dignity  of  the  family."  They  then  went  to  supper, 
so  as  to  retire  early,  that  they  might  be  ready  in  good  time  in 
the  morning. 

Gertrude,  annoyed,  piqued,  and  at  the  same  time  a  little 
puflfed  up  by  the  compliments  and  ceremonies  of  the  day,  at 
this  moment  remembered  all  she  had  suffered  from  her  jailer; 
and,  seeing  her  father  so  ready  to  gratify  her  in  everything 
but  one,  she  resolved  to  make  use  of  this  disposition  for  the 
indulgence  of  at  least  one  of  the  passions  which  tormented 
her.  She  displayed  a  great  unwillingness  again  to  be  left 
alone  with  her  maid,  and  complained  bitterly  of  her  treatment. 

"What!"  said  the  Prince;  "did  she  not  treat  you  with 
respect?  To-morrow  I  will  reward  her  as  she  deserves. 
Leave  it  to  me,  and  I  will  get  you  entire  satisfaction.  In  the 
mean  while,  a  child  with  whom  I  am  so  well  pleased  must  not 
be  attended  by  a  person  she  dislikes."  So  saying,  he  called 
another  servant,  and  gave  her  orders  to  wait  upon  Gertrude, 
who,  though  certainly  enjoying  the  satisfaction  she  received, 
was  astonished  at  finding  it  so  trifling,  in  comparison  w4th 
the  earnest  wishes  she  had  felt  beforehand.  The  thought  that, 
in  spite  of  her  unwillingness,  predominated  in  her  imagination, 
was  the  remembrance  of  the  fearful  progress  she  had  this  day 
made  toward  her  cloistral  life,  and  the  consciousness  that  to 
draw  back  now  would  require  a  far,  far  greater  degree  of 
courage  and  resolution  than  w^ould  have  sui^ced  a  few  days 
before,  and  which,  even  then,  she  felt  she  did  not  possess. 

The  woman  appointed  to  attend  her  was  an  old  servant  of 
the  family,  who  had  formerly  been  the  young  Prince's  gov- 
erness, having  received  him  from  the  arms  of  his  nurse,  and 
brought  him  up  until  he  was  almost  a  young  man.  In  him 
she  had  centred  all  her  pleasures,  all  her  hopes,  all  her  pride. 
She  w^as  delighted  at  this  day's  decision,  as  if  it  had  been  her 
own  good  fortune;  and  Gertrude,  at  the  close  of  the  day,  was 
obliged  to  listen  to  the  congratulations,  praises,  and  advice 
of  this  old  woman.  She  told  her  of  some  of  her  aunts  and 
near  relations  who  had  been  very  happy  as  nuns,  because,  be- 
ing of  so  high  a  family,  they  had  always  enjoyed  the  first  hon- 
ours, and  had  been  able  to  have  a  good  deal  ot  influence  be- 
yond the  walls  of  the  convent;  so  that,  from  their  parlour, 


THE   BETROTHED 


143 


they  had  come  off  victorious  in  undertakings  in  which  the  first 
ladies  of  the  land  had  been  quite  foiled.  She  talked  to  her 
about  the  visits  she  would  receive;  she  would  some  day  be 
seeing  the  Signor  Prince  with  his  bride,  who  must  certainly 
be  some  noble  lady;  and  then  not  only  the  monastery,  but  the 
whole  country  would  be  in  excitement.  The  old  woman 
talked  while  undressing  Gertrude;  she  talked  after  she  had 
lain  down,  and  even  continued  talking  after  Gertrude  was 
asleep.  Youth  and  fatigue  had  been  more  powerful  than 
cares.  Her  sleep  was  troubled,  disturbed,  and  full  of  tor- 
menting dreams,  but  was  unbroken,  until  the  shrill  voice  of 
the  old  woman  aroused  her  to  prepare  for  her  journey  to 
Monza. 

"Up,  up,  Signora  bride;  it  is  broad  daylight,  and  you 
will  want  at  least  an  hour  to  dress  and  arrange  yourself.  The 
Signora  Princess  is  getting  up;  they  awoke  her  four  hours 
earlier  than  usual.  The  young  Prince  has  already  been  down 
to  the  stables  and  come  back,  and  is  ready  to  start  whenever 
you  are.  The  creature  is  as  brisk  as  a  hare !  but  he  was  always 
so  from  a  child :  I  have  a  right  to  say  so  who  have  nursed  him 
in  my  arms.  But  when  he's  once  set  a-going,  it  won't  do  to 
oppose  him;  for,  though  he  is  the  best  tempered  creature  in 
the  world,  he  sometimes  gets  impatient  and  storms.  Poor  fel- 
low! one  must  pity  him;  it  is  all  the  effect  of  his  tempera- 
ment; and  besides,  this  time  there  is  some  reason  in  it,  be- 
cause he  is  going  to  all  this  trouble  for  you.  People  must 
take  care  how  they  touch  him  at  such  times!  he  minds  no 
one  except  the  Signor  Prince.  But  some  day  he  wdll  be  the 
Prince  himself;  may  it  be  as  long  as  possible  first,  however. 
Quick,  quick,  Signorina,  why  do  you  look  at  me  as  if  you 
were  bewitched?  You  ought  to  be  out  of  vour  nest  at  this 
hour." 

At  the  idea  of  the  impatient  Prince,  all  the  other  thoughts 
which  had  crowded  into  Gertrude's  mind  on  awaking,  van- 
ished before  it  like  a  flock  of  sparrows  on  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  a  scarecrow.  She  instantly  obeyed,  dressed  herself 
in  haste,  and,  after  submitting  to  the  decoration  of  her  hair 
and  person,  went  down  to  the  saloon,  where  her  parents  and 
brother  were  assembled.  She  was  then  led  to  an  arm-chair, 
and  a  cup  of  chocolate  was  brought  to  her,  which  in  those 
days  was  a  ceremony  similar  to  that  formerly  in  use  among 
the  Romans,  of  presenting  the  toga  virilis. 

When  the  carriage  was  at  the  door,  the  Prince  drew  his 
daughter  aside,  and  said :  "  Come,  Gertrude,  yesterday  you 
had   every   attention   paid   you;  to-day   you   must   overcome 


144  MANZONI 

yourself.  The  point  is  now  to  make  a  proper  appearance  in 
the  monastery  and  the  surrounding  country,  whehe  you  are 
destined  to  take  the  first  place.  They  are  expecting  you." 
(It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  Prince  had  despatched  a 
message  the  preceding  day  to  the  Lady  Abbess.)  "  They  are 
expecting  you,  and  all  eyes  will  be  upon  you.  You  must 
maintain  dignity  and  an  easy  manner.  The  Abbess  will  ask 
you  what  you  wish,  according  to  the  usual  form.  You  must 
reply  that  you  request  to  be  allowed  to  take  the  veil  in  the 
monastery  where  you  have  been  so  lovingly  educated,  and 
have  received  so  many  kindnesses,  which  is  the  simple  truth. 
You  will  pronounce  these  words  with  an  unembarrassed  air; 
for  I  would  not  have  it  said  that  you  have  been  drawn  in,  and 
that  you  don't  know  how  to  answer  for  yourself.  These  good 
mothers  know  nothing  of  the  past:  it  is  a  secret  which  must 
remain  for  ever  buried  in  the  family.  Take  care  you  don't  put 
on  a  sorrowful  or  dubious  countenance,  which  might  excite 
any  suspicion.  Show  of  what  blood  you  are:  be  courteous 
and  modest;  but  remember  that  there,  away  from  the  family, 
there  will  be  nobody  above  you." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  the  Prince  led  the  way,  Ger- 
trude, the  Princess,  and  the  young  Prince,  following;  and, 
going  down-stairs,  they  seated  themselves  in  the  carriage. 
The  snares  and  vexations  of  the  world,  and  the  happy,  blessed 
life  of  the  cloister,  more  especially  for  young  people  of  noble 
birth,  were  the  subjects  of  conversation  during  the  drive.  On 
approaching  their  destination  the  Prince  renewed  his  instruc- 
tions to  his  daughter,  and  repeated  over  to  her  several  times 
the  prescribed  form  of  reply.  On  entering  this  neighbour- 
hood, Gertrude  felt  her  heart  beat  violently,  but  her  attention 
was  suddenly  arrested  by  several  gentlemen,  who  stopped  the 
carriage  and  addressed  numberless  compliments  to  her. 
Then  continuing  their  way,  they  drove  slowly  up  to  the  mon- 
astery, amongst  the  inquisitive  gazes  of  the  crowds  who  had 
collected  upon  the  road.  When  the  carriage  stopped  before 
these  well-known  walls,  and  that  dreaded  door,  Gertrude's 
heart  beat  still  more  violently.  They  alighted  between  two 
wings  of  bystanders,  whom  the  servants  were  endeavouring 
to  keep  back,  and  the  consciousness  that  the  eyes  of  all  were 
upon  her  compelled  the  unfortunate  girl  closely  to  study  her 
behaviour;  but,  above  all,  those  of  her  father  kept  her  in  awe; 
for,  spite  of  the  dread  she  had  of  them,  she  could  not  help 
every  moment  raising  her  eyes  to  his,  and,  like  invisible  reins, 
they  regulated  every  m.ovement  and  expression  of  her  counte- 
nance.    After  traversing  the  first  court,  they  entered  the  sec- 


THE   BETROTHED 


145 


ond,  where  the  door  of  the  interior  cloister  was  held  open, 
and  completely  blockaded  by  nuns.  In  the  first  row  stood  the 
Abbess,  surrounded  by  the  eldest  of  the  sisterhood;  behind 
them  the  younger  nuns  promiscuously  arranged,  and  some 
on  tiptoe;  and,  last  of  all,  the  lay-sisters  mounted  on  stools. 
Here  and  there  among  them  were  seen  the  glancing  of  certain 
bright  eyes  and  some  little  faces  peeping  out  from  between  the 
cowls:  they  were  the  most  active  and  daring  of  the  pupils, 
who,  creeping  in  and  pushing  their  way  between  nun  and  nun, 
had  succeeded  in  making  an  opening  where  they  might  also 
see  something.  Many  were  the  acclamations  of  this  crowd, 
and  many  the  hands  held  up  in  token  of  welcome  and  exul- 
tation. They  reached  the  door,  and  Gertrude  found  her- 
self standing  before  the  Lady  Abbess.  After  the  first  com- 
pliments, the  Superior,  with  an  air  between  cheerfulness  and 
solemnity,  asked  her  what  she  wanted  in  that  place,  where 
there  was  no  one  who  would  deny  her  anything. 

"  I  am  here  .  .  .  ."  began  Gertrude;  but,  on  the  point  of 
pronouncing  the  words  which  would  almost  irrevocably  de- 
cide her  fate,  she  hesitated  a  moment,  and  remained  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  crowd  before  her.  At  this  moment  she 
caught  the  eye  of  one  of  her  old  companions,  who  looked  at 
her  with  a  mixed  air  of  compassion  and  malice  which  seemed 
to  say:  "Ah!  the  boaster  is  caught."  This  sight,  awakening 
more  vividly  in  her  mind  her  old  feelings,  restored  to  her  also 
a  little  of  her  former  courage;  and  she  was  on  the  point  of 
framing  a  reply  far  dififerent  to  the  one  which  had  been  dic- 
tated to  her,  when,  raising  her  eyes  to  her  father's  face,  almost, 
as  it  were,  to  try  her  strength,  she  encountered  there  such  a 
deep  disquietude,  such  a  threatening  impatience,  that,  urged 
by  fear,  she  continued  with  great  precipitation,  as  if  flying 
from  some  terrible  object:  *'  I  am  here  to  request  permission 
to  take  the  religious  habit  in  this  monastery,  where  I  have 
been  so  lovingly  educated."  The  Abbess  quickly  answered, 
that  she  was  very  sorry  in  this  instance  that  the  regulations 
forbade  her  giving  an  immediate  reply,  which  must  come  from 
the  general  votes  of  the  sisters,  and  for  which  she  must  ob- 
tain permission  from  her  superiors;  that,  nevertheless,  Ger- 
trude knew  well  enough  the  feelings  entertained  toward  her 
in  that  place,  to  foresee  what  the  answer  would  be;  and  that, 
in  the  mean  while,  no  regulations  prevented  the  Abbess  and 
the  sisterhood  from  manifesting  the  great  satisfaction  they 
felt  in  hearing  her  make  such  a  request.  There  then  burst 
forth  a  confused  murmur  of  congratulations  and  acclamations. 
Presently,  large  dishes  were  brought  filled  with  sweetmeats, 
10 


146  MANZONI 

and  were  offered  first  to  the  bride,  and  afterward  to  her  par- 
ents. While  some  of  the  nuns  approached  to  greet  Gertrude, 
others  compHmenting  her  mother,  and  others  the  young 
Prince,  the  Abbess  requested  the  Prince  to  repair  to  the  grate 
of  the  parlour  of  conference,  where  she  would  wait  upon 
him.  She  was  accompanied  by  two  elders,  and  on  his  appear- 
ing, "  Signor  Prince,"  said  she;  "to  obey  the  regulations 
....  to  perform  an  indispensable  formality,  though  in  this 
case  ....  nevertheless  I  must  tell  you  ....  that  whenever 
a  young  person  asks  to  be  admitted  to  take  the  veil,  .... 
the  Superior,  which  I  am  unworthily  ....  is  obliged  to  warn 
the  parents  ....  that  if  by  any  chance  ....  they  should 
have  constrained  the  will  of  their  daughter,  they  are  liable  to 
excommunication.     You  will  excuse  me  .  .  .  ." 

''  Oh!  certainly,  certainly,  reverend  mother.  I  admire 
your  exactness;  it  is  only  right  ....  But  you  need  not 
doubt  .  .  .  ." 

"  Oh!  think,  Signor  Prince  ....  I  only  spoke  from  ab- 
solute duty  ....  for  the  rest  .  .  .  ." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  Lady  Abbess." 

Having  exchanged  these  few  words,  the  two  interlocutors 
reciprocally  bowed  and  departed,  as  if  neither  of  them  felt  very 
willing  to  prolong  the  interview,  each  retiring  to  his  own 
party,  the  one  outside,  the  other  within  the  threshold  of  the 
cloister.  ''  Now  then  let  us  go,"  said  the  Prince;  *'  Gertrude 
will  soon  have  plenty  of  opportunity  of  enjoying  as  much  as 
she  pleases  the  society  of  these  good  mothers.  For  the  pres- 
ent, we  have  put  them  to  enough  inconvenience."  And,  mak- 
ing a  low  bow,  he  signified  his  wish  to  return :  the  party  broke 
up,  exchanged  salutations,  and  departed. 

During  the  drive  home  Gertrude  felt  little  inclination  to 
speak.  Alarmed  at  the  step  she  had  taken,  ashamed  at  her 
want  of  spirit,  and  vexed  with  others  as  well  as  herself,  she 
tried  to  enumerate  the  opportunities  which  still  remained  of 
saying  no,  and  languidly  and  confusedly  resolved  in  her  own 
mind  that  in  this,  or  that,  or  the  other  instance  she  zvoidd  be 
more  open  and  courageous.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  these 
thoughts,  her  dread  of  her  father's  frown  still  held  its  full 
sway;  so  that  once,  when,  by  a  stealthy  glance  at  his  face,  she 
was  fully  assured  that  not  a  vestige  of  anger  remained,  when 
she  even  saw  that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  her,  she  felt 
quite  cheered,  and  experienced  a  real  but  transient  joy. 

On  their  arrival,  a  long  toilette  dinner,  visits,  walks,  a 
conversazione  and  supper,  followed  each  other  in  rapid  suc- 
cession.    After  supper  the  Prince  introduced  another  subject 


THE   BETROTHED 


147 


— the  choice  of  a  godmother.  This  was  the  title  of  the  person 
who,  being  soHcited  by  the  parents,  became  the  guardian  and 
escort  of  the  young  novice,  in  the  interval  between  the  re- 
quest and  the  admission;  an  interval  frequently  spent  in  visit- 
ing churches,  public  palaces,  conversazioni,  villas,  and  tem- 
ples; in  short,  everything  of  note  in  the  city  and  its  environs; 
so  that  the  young  people,  before  pronouncing  the  irrevocable 
vow,  might  be  fully  aware  of  what  they  were  giving  up. 

"We  must  think  of  a  godmother,"  said  the  Prince;  '*  for 
to-morrow  the  vicar  of  the  nuns  will  be  here  for  the  usual 
formality  of  an  examination,  and  shortly  afterward  Gertrude 
will  be  proposed  in  council  for  the  acceptance  of  the  nuns." 

In  saying  this  he  turned  toward  the  Princess,  and  she, 
thinking  he  intended  it  as  an  invitation  to  her  to  make  some 
proposal,  was  beginning,  "  There  should  be  .  .  .  ."  But  the 
Prince  interrupted  her. 

"  No,  no,  Signora  Princess;  the  godmother  should  be  ac- 
ceptable above  all  to  the  bride;  and  though  universal  custom 
gives  the  selection  to  the  parents,  yet  Gertrude  has  so  much 
judgment,  and  such  excellent  discernment,  that  she  richly  de- 
serves to  be  made  an  exception."  And  here,  turning  to  Ger- 
trude, with  the  air  of  one  who  was  bestowing  a  singular 
favour,  he  continued:  "  Any  one  of  the  ladies  who  were  at  the 
conversazione  this  evening  possesses  all  the  necessary  quali- 
fications for  the  office  of  godmother  to  a  person  of  your  fam- 
ily; and  any  one  of  them,  I  am  willing  to  believe,  will  think  it 
an  honour  to  be  made  choice  of.    Do  you  choose  for  yourself." 

Gertrude  was  fully  sensible  that  to  make  a  choice  was  but 
to  renew  her  consent;  yet  the  proposition  was  made  with  so 
much  dignity,  that  a  refusal  would  have  borne  the  appearance 
of  contempt,  and  an  excuse,  of  ignorance  or  fastidiousness. 
She  therefore  took  this  step  also,  and  named  a  lady  who  had 
chiefly  taken  her  fancy  that  evening;  that  is  to  say,  one  who 
had  paid  her  the  most  attention,  who  had  most  applauded  her, 
and  who  had  treated  her  with  those  familiar,  affectionate,  and 
engaging  manners,  which,  on  the  first  acquaintanceship,  coun- 
terfeit a  friendship  of  long  standing.  "  An  excellent  choice," 
exclaimed  the  Prince,  who  had  exactly  wished  and  expected 
it.  Whether  by  art  or  chance,  it  happened  just  as  when  a 
card-player,  holding  up  to  view  a  pack  of  cards,  bids  the  spec- 
tator think  of  one,  and  then  will  tell  him  which  it  is,  having 
previously  disposed  them  in  such  a  way  that  but  one  of  them 
can  be  seen.  This  lady  had  been  been  so  much  with  Ger- 
trude all  the  evening,  and  had  so  entirely  engaged  her  atten- 
tion, that  it  would  have  required  an  effort  of  imagination  to 


148  MANZONI 

think  of  another.  These  attentions,  however,  had  not  been  paid 
without  a  motive;  the  lady  had  for  some  time  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  the  young  Prince  as  a  desirable  son-in-law;  hence  she 
regarded  everything  belonging  to  the  family  as  her  own;  and 
therefore  it  was  natural  enough  that  she  should  interest  her- 
self for  her  dear  Gertrude,  no  less  than  for  her  nearest  rela- 
tives. 

On  the  morrow,  Gertrude  awoke  with  the  image  of  the  ap- 
proaching examination  before  her  eyes;  and,  while  she  was 
considering  if  and  how  she  could  seize  this  most  decisive  op- 
portunity to  draw  back,  she  was  summoned  by  the  Prince. 
*'  Courage,  my  child,"  said  he:  **  until  now  you  have  behaved 
admirably,  and  it  only  remains  to-day  to  crown  the  work. 
All  that  has  been  done  hitherto  has  been  done  with  your  con- 
sent. If,  in  this  interval,  any  doubts  had  arisen  in  your  mind, 
any  misgivings,  or  youthful  regrets,  you  ought  to  have  ex- 
pressed them;  but  at  the  point  at  which  we  have  now  arrived, 
it  is  no  longer  the  time  to  play  the  child.  The  worthy  man 
who  is  coming  to  you  this  morning,  will  ask  you  a  hundred 
questions  about  your  election,  and  whether  you  go  of  your 
own  good  will,  and  why,  and  how,  and  what  not  besides.  If 
you  tantalize  him  in  your  replies,  he  will  keep  you  under  ex- 
amination I  don't  know  how  long.  It  would  be  an  annoyance 
and  a  weariness  to  you;  and  it  might  produce  a  still  more  seri- 
ous efifect.  After  all  the  public  demonstrations  that  have  been 
made,  every  little  hesitation  you  may  display  will  risk  my 
honour,  and  may  make  people  think  that  I  have  taken  a  mo- 
mentary fancy  of  yours  for  a  settled  resolution — that  I  have 
rushed  headlong  into  the  business — that  I  have  ....  what 
not?  In  this  case,  I  shall  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  choos- 
ing between  two  painful  alternatives:  either  to  let  the  world 
form  a  derogatory  judgment  of  my  conduct — a  course  which 
I  absolutely  can  not  take  in  justice  to  myself — or  to  reveal 
the  true  motive  of  your  resolution,  and  .  .  .  ."  But  here,  ob- 
serving that  Gertrude  coloured  crimson,  that  her  eyes  became 
inflamed,  and  her  face  contracted  like  the  petals  of  a  flower 
in  the  sultry  heat  that  precedes  a  storm,  he  broke  of¥  this 
strain,  and  continued  with  a  serene  face:  "  Come,  come,  all  de- 
pends upon  yourself — upon  your  judgment.  I  know  that  you 
are  not  deficient  in  it,  and  that  you  are  not  a  child,  to  spoil 
a  good  undertaking  just  at  the  conclusion;  but  I  must  fore- 
see and  provide  for  all  contingencies.  Let  us  say  no  more 
about  it;  only  let  me  feel  assured  that  you  wnll  reply  with 
frankness  so  as  not  to  excite  suspicion  in  the  mind  of  this 
worthy  man.    Thus  you,  also,  will  be  set  at  liberty  the  sooner." 


THE   BETROTHED 


149 


Then,  after  suggesting  a  few  answers  to  the  probable  inter- 
rogations that  would  be  put,  he  entered  upon  the  usual  topic 
of  the  pleasures  and  enjoyments  prepared  for  Gertrude  at  the 
monastery,  and  contrived  to  detain  her  on  this  subject  till  a 
servant  announced  the  arrival  of  the  examiner.  After  a  hasty 
repetition  of  the  most  important  hints,  he  left  his  daughter 
alone  with  him,  according  to  the  usual  custom. 

The  good  man  came  with  a  slight  preconceived  opinion 
that  Gertrude  had  a  strong  desire  for  a  cloistral  life,  because 
the  Prince  had  told  him  so,  when  he  went  to  request  his  at- 
tendance. It  is  true  that  the  good  priest,  who  knew  well 
enough  that  mistrust  was  one  of  the  most  necessary  virtues 
of  his  office,  held  as  a  maxim  that  he  should  be  very  slow  in 
believing  such  protestations,  and  should  be  on  his  guard, 
against  preconceptions;  but  it  seldom  happens  that  the  posi- 
tive affirmations  of  a  person  of  such  authority,  in  whatever 
matter,  do  not  give  a  bias  to  the  mind  of  those  who  hear  them. 
After  the  usual  salutations:  "  Signorina,"  said  he,  "I  am 
coming  to  act  the  part  of  the  tempter;  I  have  come  to  excite 
Moubts  where  your  request  expresses  certainty,  to  place  diffi- 
culties before  your  eyes,  and  to  assure  myself  whether  you 
have  well  considered  them.  Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you 
some  questions?  " 

"  Proceed,"  replied  Gertrude. 

The  worthy  priest  then  began  to  question  her  in  the  usual 
prescribed  forms.  '*  Do  you  feel  in  your  heart  a  free,  volun- 
tary resolution  to  become  a  nun?  Have  no  threatenings,  no 
flatteries  been  resorted  to?  Has  no  authority  been  made  use 
of  to  persuade  you  to  this  step?  Speak  without  reserve  and 
with  perfect  sincerity  to  a  man  whose  duty  it  is  to  ascertain 
your  unbiassed  will,  that  he  may  prevent  your  being  compelled 
by  any  exercise  of  force  to  take  such  a  course." 

The  true  answer  to  such  a  demand  rose  up  before  Ger- 
trude's mind  with  fearful  distinctness.  But  to  make  that  re- 
ply, she  must  come  to  an  explanation;  she  must  disclose  what 
she  had  been  threatened  with,  and  relate  a  story  ....  The 
unhappy  girl  shrank  back  in  horror  from  such  an  idea,  and 
tried  to  find  some  other  reply,  which  would  more  speedily  re- 
lease her  from  this  unpleasant  interview.  "  I  wish  to  take  the 
veil,"  said  she,  concealing  her  agitation — "  I  wish  to  take  the 
veil  at  my  own  desire,  voluntarily." 

"How  long  have  you  had  this  desire?"  again  demanded 
the  good  priest. 

"  I  have  always  felt  it,"  replied  Gertrude,  rendered  after 
this  first  step  more  unscrupulous  about  speaking  the  truth. 


150 


MANZONI 


"  But  what  is  the  principal  motive  that  induces  you  to  be- 
come a  nun?  " 

The  good  priest  Uttle  knew  what  a  terrible  chord  he  was 
touching;  and  Gertrude  had  to  make  a  great  effort  not  to  be- 
tray in  her  countenance  the  effect  which  these  words  pro- 
duced on  her  mind,  as  she  replied:  *'  My  motive  is  to  serve 
God,  and  to  fly  the  perils  of  the  world." 

''  May  there  not  have  been  some  disgust?  Some  .... 
excuse  me  ....  some  caprice?  There  are  times  when  a 
passing  cause  may  make  an  impression  that  seems  at  the 
moment  sure  to  be  lasting;  but  afterward,  when  the  cause  is 
removed,  and  the  mind  calmed,  then  .  .  .  ." 

''No,  no,"  replied  Gertrude,  precipitately,  "the ^reason  is 
exactly  what  I  have  told  you." 

The  vicar,  rather  to  discharge  his  duty  faithfully  than  be- 
cause he  thought  it  necessary,  persisted  in  his  inquiries;  but 
Gertrude  was  resolved  to  deceive  him.  Besides  the  horror 
she  felt  at  the  thought  of  making  him  acquainted  with  her 
weakness,  when  he  seemed  so  far  from  suspecting  her  of 
anything  of  the  kind,  the  poor  girl  thought  that  though  he 
could  certainly  easily  prevent  her  taking  the  veil,  yet  that  there 
was  the  end  of  his  authority  over  her,  or  his  power  of  protec- 
tion. When  once  he  had  gone,  she  would  be  left  alone  with 
the  Prince,  and  of  what  she  would  then  have  to  endure  in  that 
house,  the  worthy  priest  could  know  nothing;  or,  even  if  he 
did,  he  could  only  pity  her.  The  examiner  was  tired  of  ques- 
tioning, before  the  unfortunate  girl  of  deceiving  him;  and, 
finding  her  replies  invariably  consistent,  and  having  no  reason 
to  doubt  their  sincerity,  he  at  last  changed  his  tone,  and  said 
all  he  could  to  confirm  her  in  her  good  resolution;  and,  after 
congratulating  her,  he  took  his  leave.  Passing  through  one 
of  the  apartments,  he  met  with  the  Prince,  who  appeared  to 
fall  in  with  him  accidentally,  and  congratulated  him  on  the 
good  dispositions  his  daughter  had  displayed.  The  Prince 
had  been  waiting  in  a  very  wearisome  state  of  suspense,  but, 
on  receiving  this  account,  he  breathed  more  freely,  and,  for- 
getting his  usual  gravity,  he  almost  ran  to  Gertrude,  and  load- 
ed her  with  commendations,  caresses,  and  promises,  with  cor- 
dial satisfaction,  and  a  tenderness  of  manner  to  a  great  de- 
gree sincere.     Such  a  strange  medley  is  the  human  heart! 

We  will  not  follow  Gertrude  in  her  continual  round  of 
sights  and  amusements,  nor  will  we  describe,  either  generally 
or  particularly,  the  feelings  of  her  mind  during  this  period; 
it  would  be  a  history  of  sorrows  and  fluctuations  too  monoto- 
nous, and  too  much  resembling  what  we  have  already  related. 


THE    BETROTHED  151 

The  beauty  of  the  surrounding  seats,  the  continual  variety  of 
objects,  and  the  pleasant  excursions  in  the  open  air,  rendered 
the  idea  of  the  place  where  she  must  shortly  alight  for  the  last 
time,  more  odious  to  her  than  ever.  Still  more  painful  were 
the  impressions  made  upon  her  by  the  assemblies  and  amuse- 
ments of  the  city.  The  sight  of  a  bride,  in  the  more  obvious 
and  common  sense  of  the  word,  aroused  in  her  envy  and  an- 
guish, to  a  degree  almost  intolerable;  and  sometimes  the  sight 
of  some  other  individual  made  her  feel  as  if  to  hear  that  title 
given  to  herself  would  be  the  height  of  felicity.  There  were 
even  times  when  the  pomp  of  palaces,  the  splendour  of  orna- 
ments, and  the  excitement  and  clamorous  festivity  of  the  con- 
versazione, so  infatuated  her,  and  aroused  in  her  such  an 
ardent  desire  to  lead  a  gay  life,  that  she  resolved  to  recant, 
and  to  suffer  anything  rather  than  turn  to  the  cold  and  death- 
like shade  of  the  cloister.  But  all  these  resolutions  vanished 
into  air,  on  the  calmer  consideration  of  the  difficulties  of  such 
a  course,  or  on  merely  raising  her  eyes  to  the  Prince's  face. 
Sometimes,  too,  the  thought  that  she  must  for  ever  abandon 
these  enjoyments,  made  even  this  little  taste  of  them  bitter 
and  wearisome  to  her;  as  the  patient,  suffering  with  thirst, 
eyes  with  vexation,  and  almost  refuses  with  contempt,  the 
spoonful  of  water  the  physician  unwillingly  allows  him.  In 
the  mean  while,  the  vicar  of  the  nuns  had  despatched  the 
necessary  attestation,  and  permission  arrived  to  hold  the  con- 
ference for  the  election  of  Gertrude.  The  meeting  was  called; 
tw^o-thirds  of  the  secret  votes,  which  were  required  by  the 
regulations,  were  given,  as  was  to  be  expected,  and  Gertrude 
w^as  accepted.  She  herself,  wearied  with  this  long  struggle, 
begged  for  immediate  admission  into  the  monastery,  and  no 
one  came  forward  to  oppose  such  a  request.  She  was  there- 
fore gratified  in  her  w^ish;  and,  after  being  pompously  con- 
ducted to  the  monastery,  she  assumed  the  habit.  After  twelve 
months  of  novitiate,  full  of  alternate  regret  and  repentings, 
the  time  of  public  profession  arrived;  that  is  to  say,  the  time 
when  she  must  either  utter  a  *'  no,"  more  strange,  more  unex- 
pected, and  more  disgraceful  than  ever;  or  pronounce  a 
"yes,"  already  so  often  repeated:  she  pronounced  it,  and  be- 
came a  nun  for  ever. 

It  is  one  of  the  peculiar  and  incommunicable  properties 
of  the  Christian  religion,  that  she  can  afford  guidance  and  re- 
pose to  all  who,  under  whatever  circumstances,  or  in  what- 
ever exigence,  have  recourse  to  her.  If  there  is  a  remedy  for 
the  past,  she  prescribes  it,  administers  it,  and  lends  light  and 
energy  to  put  it  in  force,  at  whatever  cost;  if  there  is  none. 


152  MANZONI 

she  teaches  how  to  do  that  effectually  and  In  reality,  which 
the  world  prescribes  proverbially — make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 
She  teaches  how  to  continue  with  discretion  what  is  thought- 
lessly undertaken;  she  inclines  the  mind  to  cleave  steadfastly 
to  what  was  imposed  upon  it  by  authority;  and  imparts  to  a 
choice  which,  though  rash  at  the  time,  is  now  irrevocable,  all 
the  sanctity,  all  the  advisedness,  and  let  us  say  it  boldly,  all  the 
cheerfulness  of  a  lawful  calling.  Here  is  a  path  so  con- 
structed that,  let  a  man  approach  it  by  what  labyrinth  or  preci- 
pice he  may,  he  sets  himself,  from  that  moment,  to  walk  in  it 
with  security  and  readiness,  and  at  once  begins  to  draw  toward 
a  joyful  end.  By  this  means,  Gertrude  might  have  proved  a 
holy  and  contented  nun,  however  she  had  become  one.  But, 
instead  of  this,  the  unhappy  girl  struggled  under  the  yoke,  and 
thus  felt  it  heavier  and  more  galling.  An  incessant  recurrence 
to  her  lost  liberty,  abhorrence  of  her  present  condition,  and  a 
wearisome  clinging  to  desires  which  could  never  be  satisfied; 
these  were  the  principal  occupations  of  her  mind.  She  recalled, 
over  and  over  again,  the  bitterness  of  the  past,  rearranged 
in  her  mind  all  the  circumstances  by  which  she  had  reached 
her  present  situation,  and  undid  in  thought  a  thousand  times 
what  she  had  done  in  act.  She  accused  herself  of  want  of 
spirit,  and  others  of  tyranny  and  perfidy,  and  pined  in  secret: 
she  idolized  and,  at  the  same  time,  bewailed  her  beauty;  de- 
plored a  youth  destined  to  struggle  in  a  prolonged  martyrdom; 
and  envied,  at  times,  any  woman,  in  whatever  rank,  with  what- 
ever acquirements,  who  could  freely  enjoy  these  gifts  in  the 
world. 

The  sight  of  those  nuns  who  had  co-operated  in  bringing 
her  thither  was  hateful  to  her:  she  remembered  the  arts  and 
contrivances  they  had  made  use  of,  and  repaid  them  with  in- 
civilities, caprices,  and  even  with  open  reproaches.  These 
they  were  obliged  to  obey  in  silence;  for  though  the  Prince 
was  willing  enough  to  tyrannize  over  his  daughter  when  he 
found  it  necessary  to  force  her  into  the  cloister,  yet,  having 
once  obtained  his  purpose,  he  would  not  so  willingly  allow 
others  to  assume  authority  over  one  of  his  family;  and  any 
little  rumour  that  might  have  reached  his  ears  would  have  been 
an  occasion  of  their  losing  his  protection,  or  perhaps,  unfortu- 
nately, of  changing  a  protector  into  an  enemy.  It  would  seem 
that  she  might  have  felt  some  kind  of  leaning  toward  those 
other  sisters  who  had  not  lent  a  hand  in  this  foul  system  of  in- 
trigue, and  who,  without  having  desired  her  for  a  companion, 
loved  her  as  such;  and,  always  good,  busy,  and  cheerful, 
showed  her,  by  their  example,  that  Here,  too,  it  was  possible 


THE   BETROTHED  1 53 

not  only  to  live,  but  to  be  happy :  but  these,  also,  were  hateful 
to  her,  for  another  reason:  their  consistent  piety  and  content- 
ment seemed  to  cast  a  reproof  upon  her  disquietude  and  way- 
wardness; so  that  she  never  suffered  an  opportunity  to  escape 
of  deriding  them  behind  their  backs  as  bigots,  or  reviling  them 
as  hypocrites.  Perhaps  she  would  have  been  less  adverse  to 
them,  had  she  known  or  guessed,  that  the  few  black  balls 
found  in  the  urn  which  decided  her  acceptance,  had  been  put 
there  by  these  very  sisters. 

She  sometimes  felt  a  little  satisfaction  in  commanding,  in 
being  courted  by  those  within  the  monastery  and  visited  most 
flatteringly  by  those  without,  in  accomplishing  some  under- 
taking, in  extending  her  protection,  in  hearing  herself  styled 
the  Signora;  but  what  consolations  were  these?  The  mind 
which  feels  their  insufficiency  would  gladly,  at  times,  add  to 
them,  and  enjoy  with  them,  the  consolations  of  religion:  yet 
the  one  can  not  be  obtained  without  renouncing  the  other;  as 
a  shipwrecked  sailor,  who  would  cling  to  the  plank  which  is 
to  bring  him  safely  to  shore,  must  relinquish  his  hold  on  the 
unsubstantial  sea-weed  which  natural  instinct  had  taught  him 
to  grasp. 

Shortly  after  finally  taking  the  veil,  Gertrude  had  been  ap- 
pointed teacher  of  the  young  people  who  attended  the  convent 
for  education,  and  it  may  easily  be  imagined  what  would  be 
their  situation  under  such  discipline.  Her  early  companions 
had  all  left,  but  the  passions  called  into  exercise  by  them  still 
remained;  and,  in  one  way  or  other,  the  pupils  were  compelled 
to  feel  their  full  weight.  When  she  remembered  that  many 
of  them  were  destined  to  that  course  of  life  of  which  she  had 
lost  every  hope,  she  indulged  against  the  poor  children  a  feel- 
ing of  rancour,  which  almost  amounted  to  a  desire  of  venge- 
ance. This  feeling  she  manifested  by  keeping  them  under, 
irritating  them,  and  depreciating  in  anticipation  the  pleasures 
which  they  one  day  hoped  to  enjoy.  Any  one  who  had  heard 
with  what  arrogant  displeasure  she  rebuked  them  at  such 
times  for  any  little  fault,  would  have  imagined  her  a  woman 
of  undisciplined  and  injudicious  temper.  On  other  occasions, 
the  same  hatred  for  the  rules  and  discipline  of  the  cloister  was 
displayed  in  fits  of  temper  entirely  different:  then,  she  not  only 
supported  the  noisy  diversions  of  her  pupils,  but  excited  them; 
she  would  mingle  in  their  games,  and  make  them  more  disor- 
derly; and,  joining  in  their  conversations,  would  imperceptibly 
lead  them  far  beyond  their  intended  limits.  If  one  of  them  hap- 
pened to  allude  to  the  Lady  Abbess's  love  of  gossiping,  their 
teacher  would  imitate  it  at  length,  and  act  it  like  a  scene  in  a 


154  MANZONI 

comedy;  would  mimic  the  expression  of  one  nun  and  the  man- 
ners of  another;  and  on  these  occasions  would  laugh  immod- 
erately; but  her  laughter  came  not  from  her  heart.  Thus  she 
passed  several  years  of  her  life,  with  neither  leisure  nor  oppor- 
tunity to  make  any  change,  until,  to  her  misfortune,  an  occa- 
sion unhappiply  presented  itself. 

Among  other  privileges  and  distinctions  accorded  to  her 
as  a  compensation  for  her  not  being  abbess,  was  the  special 
grant  of  a  bed-chamber  in  a  separate  part  of  the  monastery. 
This  side  of  the  building  adjoined  a  house  inhabited  by  a 
young  man  of  professedly  abandoned  character;  one  of  the 
many  who,  in  those  days,  by  the  help  of  their  retinues  of  bra- 
voes,  and  by  combinations  with  other  villains,  were  enabled, 
up  to  a  certain  point,  to  set  at  defiance  public  force,  and  the 
authority  of  the  laws.  Our  manuscript  merely  gives  him  the 
name  of  Egidio.  This  man,  having,  from  a  little  window 
which  overlooked  the  court-yard,  seen  Gertrude  occasionally 
passing,  or  idly  loitering  there,  and  allured,  rather  than  intimi- 
dated, by  the  dangers  and  impiety  of  the  act,  ventured  one  day 
to  address  her.  The  miserable  girl  replied.  At  first  she  ex- 
perienced a  lively,  but  not  unmixed  satisfaction.  Into  the 
painful  void  of  her  soul  was  infused  a  powerful  and  continual 
stimulus;  a  fresh  principle,  as  it  were,  of  vitality;  but  this  en- 
joyment was  like  the  restorative  draught  which  the  ingenious 
cruelty  of  the  ancients  presented  to  a  condemned  criminal,  to 
strengthen  him  to  bear  the  agonies  of  martyrdom.  A  great 
change,  at  the  same  time,  was  observable  in  her  whole  deport- 
ment; she  became  all  at  once  more  regular  and  tranquil,  less 
bitter  and  sarcastic,  and  even  showed  herself  friendly  and 
affable;  so  that  the  sisters  congratulated  each  other  on  the 
happy  change ;  so  far  were  they  from  imagining  the  real  cause, 
and  from  understanding  that  this  new  virtue  was  nothing  else 
than  hypocrisy  added  to  her  former  failings.  This  improve- 
ment, however,  this  external  cleansing,  so  to  speak,  lasted  but 
a  short  time,  at  least  with  any  steadiness  or  consistency.*  She 
soon  returned  to  her  accustomed  scorn  and  caprice,  and  re- 
newed her  imprecations  and  raillery  against  her  cloistral 
prison,  expressed  sometimes  in  language  hitherto  unheard  in 
that  place,  and  from  those  lips.  Nevertheless,  a  season  of  re- 
pentance succeeded  each  outbreak,  and  an  endeavour  to  atone 
for  it  and  wipe  out  its  remembrance  by  additional  courtesies 
and  kindness.  The  sisters  were  obliged  to  bear  all  these  vicis- 
situdes as  they  best  could,  and  attributed  them  to  the  wayward 
and  fickle  disposition  of  the  Signora. 

For  some  time  no  one  seemed  to  think  any  longer  about 


THE   BETROTHED 


155 


these  matters;  but  one  day  the  Signora,  having  had  a  dispute 
with  a  lay-sister  for  some  trifling  irregularity,  continued  to 
insult  her  so  long  beyond  her  usual  bounds,  that  the  sister, 
after  having  for  some  time  gnawed  the  bit  in  silence,  could  no 
longer  keep  her  patience,  and  threw  out  a  hint  that  she  knew 
something,  and  would  reveal  it  when  an  opportunity  occurred. 
From  that  moment  the  Signora  had  no  peace.  It  was  not 
long  after  that,  one  morning,  the  sister  was  in  vain  expected  at 
her  usual  employment;  she  was  sought  in  her  cell,  but  fruit- 
lessly; she  was  called  loudly  by  many  voices,  but  there  was 
no  reply;  she  was  hunted  and  sought  for  diligently,  here  and 
there,  above,  below,  from  the  cellar  to  the  roof;  but  she  was 
nowhere  to  be  found.  And  who  knows  what  conjectures 
might  have  been  made,  if,  in  searching  for  her,  it  had  not  hap- 
pened that  a  large  hole  was  discovered  in  the  garden  wall, 
which  induced  every  one  to  think  that  she  had  made  her  es- 
cape thence.  Messengers  were  immediately  despatched  in 
various  directions  to  overtake  her  and  bring  her  back;  every 
inquiry  was  made  in  the  surrounding  country;  but  there  was 
never  the  slightest  information  about  her.  Perhaps  they 
might  have  known  more  of  her  fate,  had  they,  instead  of  seek- 
ing at  a  distance,  dug  up  the  ground  near  at  hand.  After 
many  expressions  of  surprise,  because  they  never  thought  her 
a  likely  woman  for  such  a  deed;  after  many  arguments,  they 
concluded  that  she  must  have  fled  to  some  very  great  distance; 
and  because  a  sister  happened  once  to  say,  "  She  must  certain- 
ly have  taken  refuge  in  Holland,"  it  was  ever  after  said  and 
maintained  in  the  monastery  that  she  had  fled  to  Holland.  The 
Signora,  however,  did  not  seem  to  be  of  this  opinion.  Not 
that  she  manifested  any  disbelief,  or  opposed  the  prevailing 
idea  with  her  particular  reasons;  if  she  had  any,  certainly 
never  were  reasons  better  concealed;  nor  was  there  anything 
from  which  she  more  willingly  abstained,  than  from  alluding 
to  this  event,  nor  any  matter  in  which  she  was  less  desirous  to 
come  to  the  bottom  of  the  mystery.  But  the  less  she  spoke 
of  it,  the  more  did  it  occupy  her  thoughts.  How  often  during 
the  day  did  the  image  of  the  ill-fated  nun  rush  unbidden  into 
her  mind,  and  fix  itself  there,  not  easily  to  be  removed!  How 
often  did  she  long  to  see  the  real  and  living  being  before  her, 
rather  than  have  her  always  in  her  thoughts,  rather  than  be 
day  and  night  in  the  company  of  that  empty,  terrible,  impas- 
sible form!  How  often  would  she  gladly  have  listened  to  her 
real  voice,  and  borne  her  rebukes,  whatever  they  might  threat- 
en, rather  than  be  for  ever  haunted  in  the  depths  of  her  mental 
ear  by  the  imaginary  whispers  of  that  same  voice,  and  hear 


156 


MANZONI 


words  to  which  it  was  useless  to  reply,  repeated  with  a  perti- 
nacity and  an  indefatigable  perseverance  of  which  no  living 
being  was  ever  capable! 

It  was  about  a  year  after  this  event,  that  Lucia  was  pre- 
sented to  the  Signora,  and  had  the  interview  with  her  which 
we  have  described.  The  Signora  multiplied  her  inquiries 
about  Don  Rodrigo's  persecution,  and  entered  into  particu- 
lars with  a  boldness  which  must  have  appeared  worse  than 
novel  to  Lucia,  who  had  never  imagined  that  the  curiosity  of 
nuns  could  be  exercised  on  such  subjects.  The  opinions  also 
which  were  mingled  with  these  inquiries,  or  which  she  allowed 
to  appear,  were  not  less  strange.  She  seemed  almost  to  ridi- 
cule Lucia's  great  horror  for  the  nobleman,  and  asked  whether 
he  were  deformed,  that  he  excited  so  much  fear;  and  would 
have  esteemed  her  retiring  disposition  almost  irrational  and 
absurd,  if  she  had  not  beforehand  given  the  preference  to  Ren- 
zo.  And  on  this  choice,  too,  she  multiplied  questions  which 
astonished  the  poor  girl,  and  put  her  to  the  blush.  Perceiv- 
ing, however,  afterward,  that  she  had  given  too  free  expression 
to  her  imagination,  she  tried  to  correct  and  interpret  her  lan- 
guage differently;  but  she  could  not  divest  Lucia's  mind  of  a 
disagreeable  wonder,  and  confused  dread.  No  sooner  did  the 
poor  girl  find  herself  alone  with  her  mother,  than  she  opened 
her  whole  mind  to  her;  but  Agnese,  being  more  experienced, 
in  a  very  few  words  quieted  her  doubts,  and  solved  the  mys- 
tery. ''Don't  be  surprised,"  said  she;  ''when  you  know  the 
world  as  well  as  I,  you'll  not  think  it  anything  very  wonderful. 
Great  people — some  more,  some  less,  some  one  way,  and  some 
another — ^liave  all  a  little  oddity.  We  must  let  them  talk,  par- 
ticularly when  we  have  need  of  them;  we  must  pretend  to  be 
listening  to  them  seriously,  as  if  they  were  saying  very  right 
things.  Didn't  you  hear  how  she  silenced  me,  almost  as  if  I 
had  uttered  some  great  nonsense?  I  was  not  a  bit  surprised 
at  it.  They  are  all  so.  However,  Heaven  be  praised,  that  she 
seems  to  have  taken  such  a  fancy  to  you,  and  will  really  pro- 
tect us.  As  to  the  rest,  if  you  live,  my  child,  and  it  falls  to 
your  lot  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  gentlemen,  you'll 
understand  it,  you'll  understand  it." 

A  desire  to  oblige  the  Father-guardian;  the  pleasure  of 
extending  protection;  the  thought  of  the  good  opinions  that 
would  result  from  so  charitable  an  exercise  of  that  protection; 
a  certain  inclination  for  Lucia,  added  to  a  kind  of  relief  she 
would  feel  in  doing  a  kindness  to  an  innocent  creature,  and  in 
assisting  and  comforting  the  oppressed,  were  the  induce- 
ments which  had  really  inclined  the  Signora  to  take  an  interest 


THE   BETROTHED 


157 


in  the  fate  of  these  two  poor  fugitives.  In  obedience  to  the 
orders  she  gave,  and  from  regard  to  the  anxiety  she  displayed, 
they  were  lodged  in  the  apartments  of  the  portress,  adjoining 
the  cloister,  and  treated  as  if  they  were  admitted  into  the  serv- 
ice of  the  monastery.  Both  mother  and  daughter  congratu- 
lated themselves  on  having  so  soon  found  a  secure  and  honour- 
able asylum,  and  would  gladly  have  remained  unknown  by 
every  one;  but  this  was  not  easy  in  a  monastery,  more  espe- 
cially when  there  was  a  man  determined  to  get  information 
about  one  of  them;  in  whose  mind  vexation  at  having  been 
foiled  and  deceived  w^as  added  to  his  former  passions  and  de- 
sires. Leaving  the  two  women,  then,  in  their  retreat,  w^e  will 
return  to  this  wretch's  palace,  while  he  was  waiting  the  result 
of  his  iniquitous  undertaking. 


CHAPTER   XI 

A  S  a  pack  of  hounds,  after  in  vain  tracking  a  hare,  return 
/\  desponding  to  their  master,  with  heads  hung  down,  and 
/  Y.  drooping  tails,  so,  on  this  disastrous  night,  did  the  bra- 
voes  return  to  the  palace  of  Don  Rodrigo.  He  was  list- 
lessly pacing  to  and  fro,  in  an  unoccupied  room  up-stairs  that 
overlooked  the  terrace.  Now  and  then  he  would  stop  to 
listen,  or  to  peep  through  the  chinks  in  the  decayed  window- 
frames,  full  of  impatience,  and  not  entirely  free  from  disqui- 
etude— not  only  for  the  doubtfulness  of  success,  but  also  for  the 
possible  consequences  of  the  enterprise:  this  being  the  boldest 
and  most  hazardous  in  which  our  valiant  cavalier  had  ever  en- 
gaged. He  endeavoured,  however,  to  reassure  himself  with 
the  thought  of  the  precautions  he  had  taken  that  not  a  trace 
of  the  perpetrator  should  be  left.  ''  As  to  suspicions,  I  care 
nothing  for  them.  I  should  like  to  know  who  would  be  in- 
clined to  come  hither,  to  ascertain  if  there  be  a  young  girl  here 
or  not.  Let  him  dare  to  come — the  rash  fool — and  he  shall 
be  well  received!  Let  the  friar  come,  if  he  pleases.  The  old 
woman?  She  shall  be  off  to  Bergamo.  'Justice?-  Poh!  Jus- 
tice! The  Podesta  is  neither  a  child  nor  a  fool.  And  at  Mi- 
lan? Who  will  care  for  these  people  at  Milan?  Who  will  lis- 
ten to  them?  Who  knows  even  what  they  are?  They  are  like 
lost  people  in  the  world — they  haven't  even  a  master:  they  be- 
long to  no  one.  Come,  come,  never  fear.  How  Attilio  will 
be  silenced  to-morrow!  He  shall  see  whether  I  am  a  man  to 
talk  and  boast.  And  then  ....  if  any  difficulty  should  en- 
sue ....  What  do  I  know?  Any  enemy  who  would  seize 
this  occasion  .  .  .  Attilio  will  be  able  to  advise  me;  he  is 
pledged  to  it  for  the  honour  of  the  whole  family."  But  the 
idea  on  which  he  dwelt  most,  because  he  found  it  both  a  soother 
of  his  doubts  and  a  nourisher  of  his  predominating  passion, 
was  the  thought  of  the  flatteries  and  promises  he  would  em- 
ploy to  gain  over  Lucia.  "  She  will  be  so  terrified  at  finding 
herself  here  alone,  in  the  midst  of  these  faces,  that  ...  in 
troth,  mine  is  the  most  human  among  them  .  .  .  that  she  will 

158 


THE   BETROTHED 


159 


look  to  me,  will  throw  herself  upon  her  knees  to  pray;  and  if 
she  prays  .  .  .  ." 

While  indulging  in  these  fine  anticipations,  he  hears  a 
footstep,   goes  to   the   window,   opens   it   a  little,   and  peeps 

through:  '*  It  is  they.     And  the  litter! Where  is  the  litter? 

Three,  five,  eight;  they  are  all  there;  there's  Griso  too;  the  lit- 
ter's not  there — Griso  shall  give  me  an  account  of  this." 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Griso  deposited  his  staff, 
cap,  and  pilgrim's  habit  in  a  corner  of  the  ground-floor 
apartment,  and,  as  if  carrying  a  burden  which  no  one  at  the 
moment  envied  him,  ascended  to  render  his  account  to  Don 
Rodrigo.  He  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairs; 
and  on  his  approaching  with  the  foolish  and  awkward  air  of  a 
deluded  villain,  "  Well,"  said,  or  rather  vociferated,  he,  '*  Sig- 
nor  Boaster,  Signor  Captain,  Signor  Lcavc-it-to-me?  " 

"  It  is  hard,"  replied  Griso,  resting  one  foot  on  the  top 
step,  "  it  is  hard  to  be  greeted  with  reproaches  after  having 
laboured  faith.fully,  and  endeavoured  to  do  one's  duty,  at  the 
risk  of  one's  life." 

"  How  has  it  gone?  Let  us  hear,  let  us  hear,"  said  Don 
Rodrigo;  and,  turning  toward  his  room,  Griso  followed  him, 
and  briefly  related  how  he  had  arranged,  what  he  had  done, 
seen  and  not  seen,  heard,  feared,  and  retrieved;  relating  it 
with  that  order  and  that  confusion,  that  dubiousness  and  that 
astonishment,  which  must  necessarily  have  together  taken 
possession  of  his  ideas. 

"  You  are  not  to  blame,  and  have  done  your  best,"  said 
Don  Rodrigo.  **  You  have  done  what  you  could;  but  .  .  . 
but,  if  under  this  roof  there  be  a  spy!  If  there  be,  if  I  suc- 
ceed in  discovering  him  (and  you  may  rest  assured  I'll  dis- 
cover him  if  he's  here),  I'll  settle  matters  with  him;  I  promise 
you,  Griso,  I'll  pay  him  as  he  deserves." 

"  The  same  suspicion,  Signor,"  replied  he,  "  has  crossed 
my  mind;  and  if  it  be  true,  and  we  discover  a  villain  of  this 
sort,  my  master  should  put  it  into  my  hands.  One  who  has 
diverted  himself  by  making  me  pass  such  a  night  as  this;  it  is 
7ny  business  to  pay  him  for  it.  However,  all  things  consid- 
ered, it  seems  likely  there  may  have  been  some  other  cross- 
purposes,  which  now  we  can  not  fathom.  To-morrow,  Signor, 
to-morrow  we  shall  be  in  clear  water." 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  been  recognized?  " 

Griso  replied  that  he  hoped  not;  and  the  conclusion  of  the 
interview  was,  that  Don  Rodrigo  ordered  him  to  do  three 
things  next  day,  which  he  would  have  thought  of  well  enough 
by  himself.     One  was,  to  despatch  two  men  in  good  time  in 


l6o  MANZONI 

the  morning  to  the  constable,  with  the  intimation  which  we 
have  already  noticed;  two  others  to  the  old  house,  to  ramble 
about,  and  keep  at  a  proper  distance  any  loiterer  who  might 
happen  to  come  there,  and  to  conceal  the  litter  from  every  eye 
till  nightfall,  when  they  would  send  to  fetch  it,  since  it  would 
not  do  to  excite  suspicion  by  any  further  measures  at  present; 
and  lastly,  to  go  himself  on  a  tour  of  discovery,  and  despatch 
several  others,  of  the  most  dexterity  and  good  sense,  on  the 
same  errand,  that  he  might  learn  something  of  the  causes  and 
issue  of  the  confusion  of  the  night.  Having  given  these  or- 
ders, Don  Rodrigo  retired  to  bed,  leaving  Griso  to  follow  his 
example,  bidding  him  good  night,  and  loading  him  with 
praises,  through  which  appeared  an  evident  desire  to  make 
some  atonement,  and  in  a  manner  to  apologize  for  the  precipi- 
tate haste  with  which  he  had  approached  him  on  his  arrival. 

Go,  take  some  rest,  poor  Griso,  for  thou  must  surely  need 
it.  Poor  Griso!  Labouring  hard  all  day,  labouring  hard  half 
the  night,  without  counting  the  danger  of  falling  into  the 
hands  of  villains,  or  of  having  a  price  set  upon  thy  head  "  for 
the  seizure  of  an  honest  woman,"  in  addition  to  those  already 
laid  upon  thee,  and  then  to  be  received  in  this  manner!  but 
thus  men  often  reward  their  fellows.  Thou  mightest,  never- 
theless, see  in  this  instance,  that  sometimes  people  judge  ac- 
cording to  merit,  and  that  matters  are  adjusted  even  in  this 
world.  Go,  rest  awhile;  for  some  day  thou  mayest  be  called 
upon  to  give  another  and  more  considerable  proof  of  thy 
faithfulness. 

Next  morning,  Griso  was  again  surrounded  with  business 
on  all  hands,  when  Don  Rodrigo  rose.  This  nobleman  quick- 
ly sought  Count  Attilio,  who,  the  moment  he  saw  him  ap- 
proach, called  out  to  him,  with  a  look  and  gesture  of  raillery, 
''Saint  Martin!" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  replied  Don  Rodrigo,  as  he  drew 
near;  "  I  will  pay  the  wager;  but  it  is  not  this  that  vexes  me 
most.  I  told  you  nothing  about  it,  because,  I  confess,  I 
thought  to  surprise  you  this  morning.  But  .  .  .  stay,  I  will 
tell  you  all." 

''  That  friar  has  a  hand  in  this  business,"  said  his  cousin, 
after  having  listened  to  the  account  with  suspense  and  won- 
derment, and  with  more  seriousness  than  could  have  been  ex- 
pected from  a  man  of  his  temperament.  ''  I  always  thought 
that  friar,  with  his  dissembling  and  out-of-the-way  answers, 
was  a  knave  and  a  hypocrite.  And  you  never  opened  yourself 
to  me — you  never  told  me  plainly  what  happened  to  entertain 
you  the  other  day."     Don  Rodrigo  related  the  conversation. 


THE   BETROTHED  l6i 

"  And  did  you  submit  to  that? "  exclaimed  Count  Attilio. 
*'  Did  you  let  him  go  away  as  he  came?  " 

"  Would  you  have  me  draw  upon  myself  all  the  Capuchins 
of  Italy?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Attilio,  "  whether  I  should  have  re- 
membered, at  that  moment,  that  there  was  another  Capuchin 
in  the  world  except  this  daring  knave;  but  surely,  even  under 
the  rules  of  prudence,  there  must  be  some  way  of  getting  satis- 
faction even  on  a  Capuchin!  We  must  manage  to  redouble 
civilities  cleverly  to  the  whole  body,  and  then  we  can  give  a 
blow  to  one  member  with  impunity.  However,  the  fellow  has 
escaped  the  punishment  he  best  deserved;  but  I'll  take  him 
under  my  protection,  and  have  the  gratification  of  teaching 
him  how  to  talk  to  gentlemen  such  as  we  are." 

"  Don't  make  matters  worse  for  me." 

"  Trust  me  for  once,  and  I'll  serve  you  like  a  relation  and  a 
friend." 

''  What  do  you  intend  to  do?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet;  but  rest  assured  I'll  pay  ofif  the  friar. 
I'll  think  about  it,  and  ....  my  uncle,  the  Signor  Count  of 
the  Privy  Council,  will  be  the  man  to  help  me.  Dear  uncle 
Count!  How  fine  it  is,  when  I  can  make  a  politician  of  his 
stamp  do  all  my  work  for  me!  The  day  after  to-morrow  I 
shall  be  at  Milan,  and,  in  one  way  or  other,  the  friar  shall  be 
rewarded." 

In  the  mean  while  breakfast  was  announced,  which,  how- 
ever, made  no  interruption  in  the  discussion  of  an  afifair  of 
so  much  importance.  Count  Attilio  talked  about  it  freely; 
and  though  he  took  that  side  which  his  friendship  to  his 
cousin  and  the  honour  of  his  name  required,  according  to  his 
ideas  of  friendship  and  honour,  yet  he  could  not  help  occasion- 
ally finding  something  to  laugh  at  in  the  ill-success  of  his  rela- 
tive and  friend.  But  Don  Rodrigo,  who  felt  it  was  his  own 
cause,  and  who  had  so  signally  failed  when  hoping  quietly  to 
strike  a  great  blow,  was  agitated  by  stronger  passions,  and 
distracted  by  more  vexatious  thoughts.  "  Fine  talk,"  said  he, 
"  these  rascals  will  make  in  the  nei:^hbourhood.  But  what  do 
I  care?  As  to  justice,  I  laugh  at  it:  there  is  no  proof  against 
me,  and  even  if  there  were,  I  should  care  for  it  just  as  little: 
the  constable  was  warned  this  morning  to  take  good  heed,  at 
the  risk  of  his  life,  that  he  makes  no  deposition  of  what  has 
happened.  Nothing  will  follow  from  it;  but  gossiping,  when 
carried  to  any  length,  is  very  annoying  to  me.  It's  quite 
enough  that  I  have  been  bullied  so  unmercifully." 

"  You  did  quite  rightly,"  replied  Count  Attilio.  "  Your 
II 


l62  MANZONI 

Podesta  ....  an  obstinate,  empty-pated,  prosing  fellow,  that 
Podesta  ...  is  nevertheless  a  gentleman,  a  man  who  knows 
his  duty;  and  it  is  just  when  we  have  to  do  with  such  people, 
that  we  must  take  care  not  to  bring  them  into  difficulties.  If 
that  rascal  of  a  constable  should  make  a  deposition,  the  Po- 
desta, however  well-intentioned,  would  be  obliged  .  .  .  ." 

**  But  you,"  interrupted  Don  Rodrigo,  with  some 
warmth,  "  you  spoil  all  my  affairs  by  contradicting  him  in 
everything,  by  silencing  him,  and  laughing  at  him  on  every  oc- 
casion. Why  can  not  a  Podesta  be  an  obstinate  fool,  when 
at  the  same  time  he  is  a  gentleman? " 

"  Do  you  know,  cousin,"  said  Count  Attilio,  glancing  to- 
ward him  with  a  look  of  raillery  and  surprise — "  do  you  know 
that  I  begin  to  think  you  are  half  afraid?  In  earnest,  you  may 
rest  assured  that  the  Podesta  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  well,  didn't  you  yourself  say  that  we  must  be  care- 
ful?" 

"I  did;  and  when  it  is  a  serious  matter,  I'll  let  you  see 
that  I'm  not  a  child.  Do  you  know  all  that  I  have  courage  to 
do  for  you?  I  am  ready  to  go  in  person  to  this  Signor  Po- 
desta. Aha!  how  proud  he  will  be  of  the  honour!  And  I  am 
ready,  moreover,  to  let  him  talk  for  half  an  hour  about  the 
Count  Duke,  and  the  Spanish  Signor,  the  governor  of  the 
castle,  and  to  give  an  ear  to  everything,  even  when  he  talks  so 
mightily  about  these  people.  Then  I  will  throw  in  a  few 
words  about  my  uncle,  the  Signor  Count  of  the  Privy  Council, 
and  you  will  see  what  effect  these  words  in  the  ear  of  the  Si- 
gnor Podesta  will  produce.  After  all,  he  has  more  need  of  our 
protection  than  you  of  his  condescension.  I  will  do  vr.y  best, 
and  will  go  to  him,  and  leave  him  better  disposed  toward  you 
than  ever." 

After  these,  and  a  few  similar  words,  Count  Attilio  set  off 
on  his  expedition,  and  Don  Rodrigo  remained  awaiting  with 
anxiety  Griso's  return.  Toward  dinner-time  he  made  his  ap- 
pearance, and  reported  the  success  of  his  reconnoitring  tour. 

The  tumult  of  the  preceding  night  had  been  so  clamorous, 
the  disappearance  of  three  persons  from  a  village  was  so 
strange  an  occurrence,  that  the  inquiries,  both  from  interest 
and  curiosity,  would  naturally  be  many,  eager,  and  persever- 
ing; and,  on  the  other  hand,  those  who  knew  something  were 
too  numerous  to  agree  in  maintainir.g  silence  on  the  matter. 
Perpetua  could  not  set  foot  out  of  doors  without  being  assailed 
by  one  or  another  to  know  what  it  was  that  had  so  alarmed  her 
master,  and  she  herself,  reviewing  and  comparing  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case,  and  perceiving  how  she  had  been  im- 


THE   BETROTHED  163 

posed  upon  by  Agnese,  felt  so  much  indignation  at  the  act  of 
perfidy  that  she  was  ever  ready  to  give  vent  to  her  feehngs. 
Not  that  she  complained  to  this  or  that  person  of  the  manner 
in  which  she  was  imposed  upon:  on  this  subject  she  did  not 
breathe  a  syllable;  but  the  trick  played  upon  her  poor  master 
she  could  not  altogether  pass  over  in  silence;  especially  as 
such  a  trick  had  been  concerted  and  attempted  by  that  gentle 
creature,  that  good  youth,  and  that  worthy  widow.  Don  Ab- 
bondio,  indeed,  might  positively  forbid  her,  and  earnestly  en- 
treat her  to  be  silent;  and  she  could  easily  enough  reply  that 
there  was  no  need  to  urge  upon  her  what  was  so  clear  and  evi- 
dent; but  certain  it  is  that  such  a  secret  in  the  poor  woman's 
breast  w^as  like  very  new  wine  in  an  old  and  badly-hooped  cask, 
which  ferments,  and  bubbles,  and  boils,  and  if  it  does  not  send 
the  bung  into  the  air,  works  itself  about  till  it  issues  in  froth, 
and  penetrates  between  the  staves,  and  oozes  out  in  drops  here  /' 
and  there,  so  that  one  can  taste  it,  and  almost  decide  w^hat  ,^/ 
kind  of  wine  it  is.  Gervase,  who  could  scarcely  believe  that 
for  once  he  was  better  informed  than  his  neighbours,  who 
thought  it  no  little  glory  to  have  been  a  sharer  in  such  a  scene 
of  terror,  and  who  fancied  himself  a  man  like  the  others,  from 
having  lent  a  hand  in  an  enterprise  that  bore  the  appearance  of 
criminality,  was  dying  to  make  a  boast  of  it.  And  though 
Tonio,  w^ho  thought  with  some  dread  of  the  inquiries,  the  pos- 
sible processes,  and  the  account  that  would  have  to  be  ren- 
dered, gave  him  many  instructions  with  his  finger  upon  his 
lips,  yet  it  was  not  possible  to  silence  every  word.  Even  Tonio 
himself,  after  having  been  absent  from  home  that  night  at  an 
unusual  hour,  and  returning  with  an  unusual  step  and  air,  and 
an  excitement  of  mind  that  disposed  him  to  candour — even  he 
could  not  dissimulate  the  matter  with  his  wife ;  and  she  was  not 
dumb.  The  person  who  talked  least  was  Menico;  for  no 
sooner  had  he  related  to  his  parents  the  history  and  object  of 
his  expedition,  than  it  appeared  to  them  so  terrible  a  thing 
that  their  son  had  been  employed  in  frustrating  an  under- 
taking of  Don  Rodrigo's,  that  they  scarcely  suflfered  the  boy 
to  finish  his  narration.  They  then  gave  him  most  strenuous 
and  threatening  orders  to  take  good  heed  that  he  did  not  give 
the  least  hint  of  anything;  and  the  next  morning,  not  yet  feel- 
ing sufficiently  confident  in  him,  they  resolved  to  keep  him 
shut  up  in  the  house  for  at  least  that  day,  and  perhaps  even 
longer.  But  what  then?  They  themselves  afterward,  in  chat- 
ting with  their  neighbours,  w^ithout  wishing  to  show  that  they 
knew  more  than  others,  yet  when  they  came  to  that  mysterious 
point  in  the  flight  of  the  three  fugitives,  and  the  how,  and  the 


164  MANZONI 

why,  and  the  where,  added,  almost  as  a  well-known  thing,  that 
they  had  fled  to  Pescarenico.  Thus  this  circumstance  also 
was  generally  noised  abroad. 

With  all  these  scraps  of  information,  put  together  and 
compared  as  usual,  and  with  the  embellishments  naturally  at- 
tached to  such  relations,  there  were  grounds  for  a  story  of 
more  certainty  and  clearness  than  common,  and  such  as  might 
have  contented  the  most  criticising  mind.  But  the  invasion 
of  the  bravoes — an  event  too  serious  and  notorious  to  be  left 
out,  and  one  on  which  nobody  had  any  positive  information — 
was  what  rendered  the  story  dark  and  perplexing.  The  name 
of  Don  Rodrigo  was  whispered  about;  and  so  far  all  were 
agreed;  but  beyond,  everything  was  obscurity  and  dissension. 
Much  was  said  about  the  two  bravoes  who  had  been  seen  in  the 
street  toward  evening,  and  of  the  other  who  had  stood  at  the 
inn  door;  but  what  light  could  be  drawn  from  this  naked  fact? 
They  inquired  of  the  landlord,  "  Who  had  been  there  the  night 
before?"  but  the  landlord  could  not  even  remember  that  he 
had  seen  anybody  that  evening;  and  concluded  his  answer, 
as  usual,  with  the  remark  that  his  inn  was  like  a  sea-port. 
Above  all,  the  pilgrim  seen  by  Stefano  and  Carlandrea  puzzled 
their  heads  and  disarranged  their  conjectures — that  pilgrim 
whom  the  robbers  were  murdering,  and  who  had  gone  away 
with  them,  or  whom  they  had  carried  off — what  could  he  be 
doing?  He  was  a  good  spirit  come  to  the  aid  of  the  women; 
he  was  the  wicked  spirit  of  a  roguish  pilgrim-impostor,  who 
always  came  by  night  to  join  such  companions,  and  perform 
such  deeds,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  when  alive;  he  was 
a  living  and  true  pilgrim,  whom  they  attempted  to  m.urder,  be- 
cause he  was  preparing  to  rouse  the  village;  he  was  (just  see 
what  they  went  so  far  as  to  conjecture!)  one  of  these  very 
villains,  disguised  as  a  pilgrim;  he  was  this;  he  was  that;  he 
was  so  many  things,  that  all  the  sagacity  and  experience  of 
Griso  would  not  have  sufficed  to  discover  who  he  was,  if  he 
had  been  obliged  to  glean  this  part  of  the  story  from  others. 
But,  as  the  reader  knows,  that  which  rendered  it  so  perplexing 
to  others,  was  exactly  the  clearest  point  to  him;  and  serving 
as  a  key  to  interpret  the  other  notices,  either  gathered  imme- 
diately by  himself,  or  through  the  medium  of  his  subordinate 
spies,  it  enabled  him  to  lay  before  Don  Rodrigo  a  report  suffi- 
ciently clear  and  connected.  Closeted  with  him,  he  told  him 
of  the  blow  attempted  by  the  poor  lovers,  which  naturally  ac- 
counted for  his  finding  the  house  empty,  and  the  ringing 
of  the  bell,  without  which  they  would  have  been  obliged  to 
suspect  traitors  (as  these  two  worthy  men  expressed  it)  in 


THE    BETROTHED  165 

the  house.  He  told  him  of  the  flight;  and  for  this,  too,  It  was 
easy  to  find  more  than  one  reason — the  fear  of  the  lovers  on 
being  taken  in  a  fault,  or  some  rumour  of  their  invasion, 
when  it  was  discovered,  and  the  village  roused.  Lastly,  he 
lold  him  that  they  had  gone  to  Pescarenico,  but  further  than 
this  his  knowledge  did  not  extend.  Don  Rodrigo  was  pleased 
to  be  assured  that  no  one  had  betrayed  him,  and  to  find  that 
no  traces  remained  of  his  enterprise;  but  it  was  a  light  and 
passing  pleasure.  "Fled  together!"  cried  he;  ''together! 
And  that  rascally  friar! — that  friar!"  The  word  burst  forth 
hoarsely  from  his  throat,  and  half-smothered  between  his  teeth, 
as  he  bit  his  nails  with  vexation:  his  countenance  was  as 
brutal  as  his  passion.  *'  That  friar  shall  answer  for  it.  Griso, 
I  am  not  myself  ....  I  must  know,  I  must  find  out  .... 
this  night  I  must  know  where  they  are.  I  have  no  peace. 
To  Pescarenico  directly,  to  know,  to  see,  to  find  ....  Four 
crowns  on  the  spot,  and  my  protection  for  ever.  This  night 
I  must  know.     And  that  villain!  ....  that  friar  .  .  .  ." 

Once  more  Griso  was  in  the  field;  and  in  the  evening  of 
that  same  day  he  could  impart  to  his  worthy  patron  the  de- 
sired information,  and  by  this  means. 

One  of  the  greatest  consolations  of  this  world  is  friend- 
ship, and  one  of  the  pleasures  of  friendship  is  to  have  some 
one  to  whom  we  may  entrust  a  secret.  Now,  friends  are  not 
divided  into  pairs,  as  husband  and  wife:  everybody,  generally 
speaking,  has  more  than  one;  and  this  forms  a  chain  of  which 
no  one  can  find  the  first  link.  When,  then,  a  friend  meets 
with  an  opportunity  of  depositing  a  secret  in  the  breast  of 
another,  he,  in  his  turn,  seeks  to  share  in  the  same  pleasure. 
He  is  entreated,  to  be  sure,  to  say  nothing  to  anybody;  and 
such  a  condition,  if  taken  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  words, 
would  immediately  cut  short  the  chain  of  these  gratifications: 
but  general  practice  has  determined  that  it  only  forbids  the 
entrusting  of  a  secret  to  everybody  but  one  equally  confiden- 
tial friend,  imposing  upon  him,  of  course,  the  same  conditions. 
Thus,  from  confidential  friend  to  confidential  friend,  the  secret 
threads  its  way  along  this  immense  chain,  until,  at  last,  it 
reaches  the  ear  of  him  or  them  whom  the  first  speaker  exactly 
intended  it  should  never  reach.  However,  it  would,  generally, 
have  to  be  a  long  time  on  the  way,  if  everybody  had  but  two 
friends,  the  one  who  tells  him,  and  the  one  to  whom  he  re- 
peats it  with  the  injunction  of  silence.  But  some  highly-fa- 
voured men  there  are  who  reckon  these  blessings  by  the  hun- 
dred, and  when  the  secret  comes  into  the  hands  of  one  of  these, 
the  circles  multiply  so  rapidly  that  it  is  no  longer  possible  to 


i66  MANZONI 

pursue  them.  Our  author  has  been  unable  to  certify  through 
how  many  mouths  the  secret  had  passed  which  Griso  was 
ordered  to  discover,  but  certain  it  is  that  the  good  man  who 
had  escorted  the  women  to  Monza,  returning  in  his  cart  to 
Pescarenico,  toward  evening,  happened,  before  reaching  home, 
to  Hght  upon  one  of  these  trustworthy  friends,  to  whom  he 
related,  in  confidence,  the  good  work  he  had  just  completed, 
and  its  sequel;  and  it  is  equally  certain  that,  two  hours  after- 
ward, Griso  was  able  to  return  to  the  palace,  and  inform  Don 
Rodrigo  that  Lucia  and  her  mother  had  found  refuge  in  a  con- 
vent at  Monza,  and  that  Renzo  had  pursued  his  way  to  Milan. 

Don  Rodrigo  felt  a  malicious  satisfaction  on  hearing  of 
this  separation,  and  a  revival  of  hope  that  he  might  at  length 
accomplish  his  wicked  designs.  He  spent  great  part  of  the 
night  in  meditating  on  his  plans,  and  arose  early  in  the  morn- 
ing with  two  projects  in  his  mind,  the  one  determined  upon, 
the  other  only  roughly  sketched  out.  The  first  was  imme- 
diately to  despatch  Griso  to  Monza  to  learn  more  particular 
tidings  of  Lucia,  and  to  know  what  (if  anything)  he  might  at- 
tempt. He  therefore  instantly  summoned  his  faithful  servant, 
placed  in  his  hand  four  crowns,  again  commended  him  for  the 
ability  by  which  he  had  earned  them,  and  gave  him  the  order 
he  had  been  premeditating. 

"  Signor  .  .  .  ."  said  Griso,  feeling  his  way. 

"What?  haven't  I  spoken  clearly?" 

"  If  you  would  send  somebody  .  .  .  ." 

"How?" 

"  Most  illustrious  Signor,  I  am  ready  to  give  my  life  for 
my  master:  it  is  my  duty;  but  I  know  also  you  would  not  be 
willing  unnecessarily  to  risk  that  of  your  dependents." 

"Well?" 

"  Your  illustrious  lordship  knows  very  well  how  many 
prices  are  already  set  upon  my  head;  and  ....  here  I  am 
under  the  protection  of  your  lordship;  we  are  a  party;  the 
Signor  Podesta  is  a  friend  of  the  family;  the  bailiffs  bear  me 
some  respect;  and  I,  too  ....  it  is  a  thing  that  does  me 
little  honour — but  to  live  quietly  ....  I  treat  them  as 
friends.  In  Milan,  your  lordship's  livery  is  known;  but  in 
Monza  /  am  known  there  instead.  And  is  your  lordship 
aware  that — I  don't  say  it  to  make  a  boast  of  myself — that  any 
one  who  could  hand  me  over  to  justice,  or  deliver  in  my  head, 
would  strike  a  great  blow?  A  hundred  crowns  at  once,  and 
the  privilege  of  liberating  two  banditti." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Don  Rodrigo,  with  an  oath:  "you 
showing  yourself  a  vile  cur  that  has  scarcely  courage  to  fly  at 


THE   BETROTHED 


167 


the  legs  of  a  passer-by,  looking  behind  him  for  fear  they  should 
shut  the  door  upon  him,  and  not  daring  to  leave  it  four 
yards!" 

"  I  think,  Signor  patron,  that  I  have  given  proof  .  .  .  ." 

"Then!" 

"  Then,"  frankly  replied  Griso,  when  thus  brought  to  the 
point,  '*  then  your  lordship  will  be  good  enough  to  reckon  as 
if  I  had  never  spoken:  heart  of  a  lion,  legs  of  a  hare,  and  I 
am  ready  to  set  off." 

"  And  I  didn't  say  you  should  go  alone.  Take  with  you 
two  of  the  bravest  .  .  .  .  lo  Sfregiato,  and  il  Tiradritto:  go 
with  a  good  heart,  and  be  our  own  Griso.  What!  three  faces 
like  yours,  quietly  passing  by,  who  do  you  think  wouldn't  be 
glad  to  let  them  pass?  The  bailiffs  at  Monza  must  needs  be 
weary  of  life  to  stake  against  it  a  hundred  crowns  in  so  hazard- 
ous a  game.  And,  besides,  don't  you  think  I  am  so  utterly 
unknown  there,  that  a  servant  of  mine  would  be  counted  as 
nobody." 

After  thus  shaming  Griso  a  little,  he  proceeded  to  give  him 
more  ample  and  particular  instructions.  Griso  took  his  two 
companions,  and  set  ofi  with  a  cheerful  and  hardy  look,  but 
cursing,  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  Monza,  and  interdicts,  and 
women,  and  the  fancies  of  patrons;  he  walked  on  like  a  wolf 
which,  urged  by  hunger,  his  body  emaciated,  and  the  furrows 
of  his  ribs  impressed  upon  his  grey  hide,  descends  from  the 
mountains,  where  everything  is  covered  with  snow,  proceeds 
suspiciously  along  the  plain,  stops,  from  time  to  time,  with 
uplifted  foot,  and  waves  his  hairless  tail — 

"  Raises  his  nose,  and  snuffs  the  faithless  wind," 

if  perchance  it  may  bring  him  the  scent  of  man  or  beast; 
erects  his  sharp  ears,  and  rolls  round  two  sanguinary  eyes, 
from  which  shine  forth  both  eagerness  for  the  prey  and  terror 
of  pursuit.  If  the  reader  wishes  to  know  whence  I  have  got 
this  fine  line,  it  is  taken  from  a  small  unpublished  work  on 
Crusaders  and  Lombards,  which  will  shortly  be  published,  and 
make  a  great  stir;  and  I  have  borrowed  it  because  it  suited  my 
purpose,  and  told  where  I  got  it,  that  I  might  not  take  credit 
due  to  others :  so  let  no  one  think  it  a  plan  of  mine  to  proclaim 
that  the  author  of  this  little  book  and  I  are  like  brothers,  and 
that  I  rummage  at  will  among  his  manuscripts. 

The  other  project  of  Don  Rodrigo's  was  the  devising  of 
some  plan  to  prevent  Renzo's  again  rejoining  Lucia,  or  setting 
foot  in  that  part  of  the  country.  He  therefore  resolved  to 
spread  abroad  rumours  of  threats  and  snares,  which,  coming 


l68  MANZONI 

to  his  hearing  through  some  friend,  might  deprive  him  of 
any  wish  to  return  to  that  neighbourhood.  He  thought,  how- 
ever, that  the  surest  way  of  doing  this  would  be  to  procure  his 
banishment  by  the  state;  and  to  succeed  in  his  project,  he  felt 
that  law  would  be  more  likely  to  answer  his  purpose  than 
force.  He  could,  for  example,  give  a  little  colouring  to  the 
attempt  made  at  the  parsonage,  paint  it  as  an  aggressive  and 
seditious  act,  and,  by  means  of  the  doctor,  signify  to  the 
Podesta  that  this  was  an  opportunity  of  issuing  an  apprehen- 
sion against  Renzo.  But  our  deliberator  quickly  perceived 
that  it  would  not  do  for  him  to  meddle  in  this  infamous  ne- 
gotiation; and,  without  pondering  over  it  any  longer,  he  re- 
solved to  open  his  mind  to  Doctor  Azzecca-Garbugli;  so  far, 
that  is,  as  was  necessary  to  make  him  acquainted  with  his  de- 
sire.— There  are  so  many  edicts!  thought  Don  Rodrigo:  and 
the  Doctor  is  not  a  goose :  he  will  be  sure  to  find  something  to 
suit  my  purpose — some  quarrel  to  pick  with  this  rascally  fel- 
low of  a  weaver:  otherwise  he  must  give  up  his  name. — But 
(how  strangely  matters  are  brought  about  in  this  world!)  while 
Don  Rodrigo  was  thus  fixing  upon  the  doctor,  as  the  man 
most  able  to  serve  him,  another  person,  one  that  nobody  would 
imagine,  even  Renzo  himself,  w^as  labouring,  so  to  say,  with 
all  his  heart  to  serve  him,  in  a  far  more  certain  and  expe- 
ditious way  than  any  the  doctor  could  possibly  have  devised. 

I  have  often  seen  a  child,  more  active,  certainly,  than  needs 
be,  but  at  every  moment  giving  earnest  of  becoming  some 
day  a  brave  man :  I  have  often,  I  say,  seen  such  a  one  busied, 
toward  evening,  in  driving  to  cover  a  drove  of  little  Indian 
pigs,  which  had  been  allowed  all  day  to  ramble  about  in  a 
field  or  orchard.  He  would  try  to  make  them  all  enter  the 
fold  in  a  drove;  but  it  was  labour  in  vain:  one  would  strike  of¥ 
to  the  right,  and  while  the  little  drover  was  running  to  bring 
him  back  into  the  herd,  another,  or  two,  or  three,  would  start 
off  to  the  left,  in  every  direction.  So  that,  after  getting  out  of 
all  patience,  he  at  last  adapted  himself  to  their  ways,  first  driv- 
ing in  those  which  were  nearest  to  the  entrance,  and  then  go- 
ing to  fetch  the  others,  one  or  two  at  a  time,  as  they  happened 
to  have  strayed  away.  A  similar  game  we  are  obliged  to  play 
with  our  characters — having  sheltered  Lucia,  we  ran  to  Don 
Rodrigo,  and  now  we  must  leave  him  to  receive  Renzo,  who 
meets  us  in  our  way.  '^ 

After  the  mournful  separation  w^e  have  related,  he  pro- 
ceeded from  Monza  toward  Milan,  in  a  state  of  mind  our  read- 
ers can  easily  imagine.  To  leave  his  own  dwelling;  and,  what 
was  worse,  his  native  village;  and,  what  was  w^orse  still,  Lucia; 


THE   BETROTHED  169 

to  find  himself  on  the  high  road,  without  knowing  where  he 
was  about  to  lay  his  head,  and  all  on  account  of  that  villain! 
When  this  image  presented  itself  to  Renzo's  mind,  he  would 
be  quite  swallowed  up  with  rage  and  the  desire  of  vengeance; 
but  then  he  would  recollect  the  prayer  which  he  had  joined  in 
offering  up  with  the  good  friar  in  the  church  at  Pescarenico, 
and  repent  of  his  anger;  then  he  would  again  be  roused  to  in- 
dignation; but  seeing  an  image  in  the  wall,  he  would  take  off 
his  hat,  and  stop  a  moment  to  repeat  a  prayer;  so  that  during 
this  journey  he  had  killed  Don  Rodrigo,  and  raised  him  to  life 
again,  at  least  twenty  times.  The  road  here  was  completely 
buried  between  two  high  banks,  muddy,  stony,  furrowed  with 
deep  cart-ruts,  which,  after  a  shower,  became  perfect  streams; 
and  where  these  did  not  form  a  sufftcient  bed  for  the  water,  the 
whole  road  was  inundated  and  reduced  to  a  pool,  so  as  to  be 
almost  impassable.  At  such  places,  a  steep  footpath,  in  the 
form  of  steps,  up  the  bank,  indicated  that  other  passengers 
had  made  a  track  in  the  fields.  Renzo  mounted  by  one  of 
these  passes  to  the  more  elevated  ground,  and,  looking  around 
him,  beheld  the  noble  pile  of  the  cathedral  towering  alone 
above  the  plain,  not  as  if  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  city,  but 
rather  as  though  it  rose  from  a  desert.  He  paused,  forgetful 
of  all  his  sorrows,  and  contemplated  thus  at  a  distance  that 
eighth  wonder  of  the  world,  of  which  he  had  learned  so  much 
from  his  infancy.  But  turning  round  after  a  moment  or  two, 
he  beheld  along  the  horizon  that  rugged  ridge  of  mountains: 
he  beheld,  distinct  and  elevated  among  these,  his  own  Rese- 
gone,  and  felt  his  blood  curdle  within  him;  then  indulging  for 
a  few  minutes  in  a  mournful  look  in  that  direction,  he  slowly 
and  sadly  turned  round,  and  continued  his  way.  By  degrees, 
he  began  to  discern  belfries  and  towers,  cupolas  and  roofs; 
then  descending  into  the  road,  he  walked  forward  for  a  long 
time;  and,  when  he  found  that  he  was  near  the  city,  accosted 
a  passenger,  and  making  a  low  bow,  with  the  best  politeness 
he  was  master  of,  said  to  him,  ''  Will  you  be  kind  enough, 
Signor  ....   ? " 

''  What  do  you  want,  my  brave  youth?  " 

"  Can  you  direct  me  the  shortest  w^ay  to  the  Capuchin 
Convent  where  Father  Bonaventura  lives?" 

The  person  to  whom  Renzo  addressed  himself  was  a 
wealthy  resident  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  having  been  that 
morning  to  Milan  on  business,  was  returning  without  having 
done  anything,  in  great  haste  to  reach  his  home  before  dark, 
and  therefore  quite  willing  to  escape  this  detention.  Never- 
theless, without  betraying  any  impatience,  he  courteously  re- 


170 


MANZONI 


plied:  "  My  good  friend,  there  are  many  more  convents  than 
one;  you  must  tell  me  more  clearly  which  you  are  seeking." 
Renzo  then  drew  from  his  bosom  Father  Cristoforo's  letter, 
and  showed  it  to  the  gentleman,  who  having  read  the  address : 
*'  Porta  Orientale,"  said  he,  returning  it  to  him;  ''  you  are  for- 
tunate, young  man;  the  convent  you  want  is  not  far  from 
hence.  Take  this  narrow  street  to  the  left;  it  is  a  by-way; 
not  far  off  you  will  come  to  the  corner  of  a  long  and  low  build- 
ing: this  is  the  Lazaretto;  follow  the  moat  that  surrounds  it, 
and  you  will  come  out  at  the  Porta  Orientale.  Enter  the 
gate,  and  three  or  four  hundred  yards  further  you  will  see  a 
little  square  surrounded  by  fine  elms ;  there  is  the  convent,  and 
you  can  not  mistake  it.  God  be  with  you,  my  brave  youth." 
And,  accompanying  the  last  words  with  a  courteous  wave  of 
the  hand,  he  continued  his  way.  Renzo  stood  surprised  and 
edified  at  the  afifable  manners  of  the  citizens  toward  strangers, 
and  knew  not  that  it  was  an  unusual  day — a  day  in  which  the 
Spanish  cloak  had  to  stoop  before  the  doublet.  He  followed 
the  path  that  had  been  pointed  out,  and  arrived  at  the  Porta 
Orientale.  The  reader,  however,  must  not  allow  the  scene 
now  associated  with  this  name  to  present  itself  to  his  mind: 
the  wide  and  straight  street  flanked  with  poplars,  outside; 
the  spacious  opening  between  two  piles  of  buildings,  begun,  at 
least,  with  some  pretensions;  on  first  entering  those  two  lat- 
eral mounds  at  the  base  of  the  bastions,  regularly  sloped,  lev- 
elled at  the  top,  and  edged  with  trees ;  that  garden  on  one  side, 
and  further  on,  those  palaces  on  the  right  and  left  of  the  prin- 
cipal street  of  the  suburb.  When  Renzo  entered  by  that  gate, 
the  street  outside  ran  straight  along  the  whole  length  of  the 
Lazzaretto,  it  being  impossible  for  it,  for  that  distance,  to  do 
otherwise ;  then  it  continued  crooked  and  narrow  between  two 
hedges.  The  gate  consisted  of  two  pillars  with  a  roofing 
above  to  protect  the  door-posts,  and  on  one  side  a  small  cot- 
tage for  the  custom-house  officers.  The  bases  of  the  bastions 
were  of  irregular  steepness,  and  the  pavement  was  a  rough 
and  unequal  surface  of  rubbish  and  fragments  of  broken  ves- 
sels thrown  there  by  chance.  The  street  of  the  suburb  which 
opened  to  the  view  of  a  person  entering  the  Porta  Orientale, 
bore  no  bad  resemblance  to  that  now  facing  the  entrance  of 
the  Porta  Tosa.  A  small  ditch  ran  along  the  middle  to  with- 
in a  few  yards  of  the  gate,  and  thus  divided  it  into  two  wind- 
ing narrow  streets,  covered  with  dust  or  mud,  according  to  the 
season.  At  the  spot  where  was,  and  now  is,  the  little  street 
called  the  Borghetto,  this  ditch  emptied  itself  into  a  sewer, 
and  thence  into  the  other  ditch  that  washes  the  walls.     Here 


THE   BETROTHED  171 

Stood  a  column  surmounted  by  a  cross,  called  the  Column  of 
San  Dionigi:  on  the  right  and  left  were  gardens  enclosed  by 
hedges,  and  at  intervals  a  few  small  cottages,  inhabited  chiefly 
by  washerwomen.  Renzo  entered  the  gate,  and  pursued  his 
way;  none  of  the  custom-house  officers  spoke  to  him,  which 
appeared  to  him  the  more  wonderful,  since  the  few  in  his  coun- 
try who  could  boast  of  having  been  at  Milan  had  related  mar- 
vellous stories  of  the  examinations  and  interrogations  to  which 
all  those  who  entered  were  subjected.  The  street  was  desert- 
ed; so  much  so,  that  had  he  not  heard  a  distant  buzz  indicat- 
ing some  great  movement,  he  would  have  fancied  he  was  en- 
tering a  forsaken  town.  Advancing  forward,  without  know- 
ing what  to  make  of  this,  he  saw  on  the  pavement  certain 
white  streaks,  as  white  as  snow;  but  snow  it  could  not  be, 
since  it  does  not  fall  in  streaks,  nor  usually  at  this  season.  He 
advanced  to  one  of  these,  looked  at  it,  touched  it,  and  felt  as- 
sured that  it  was  flour. — A  great  abundance,  thought  he,  there 
must  be  in  Milan,  if  they  scatter  in  this  manner  the  gifts  of 
God.  They  gave  us  to  understand  that  there  was  a  great 
famine  everywhere.  See  how  they  go  about  to  make  us  poor 
people  quiet. — Going  a  few  steps  further,  and  coming  up  to 
the  column,  he  saw  at  its  foot  a  still  stranger  sight;  scattered 
about  on  the  steps  of  the  pedestal  were  things  which  certainly 
were  not  stones,  and,  had  they  been  on  a  baker's  counter,  he 
would  not  have  hesitated  a  moment  to  call  them  loaves.  But 
Renzo  would  not  so  readily  trust  his  eyes;  because,  forsooth! 
this  was  not  a  likely  place  for  bread. — Let  us  see  what  these 
things  can  be — said  he  again  to  himself;  and,  going  to  the 
column,  he  stooped  down,  and  took  one  in  his  hand:  it  was 
really  a  round,  very  white  loaf,  and  such  as  Renzo  was  unac- 
customed to  eat,  except  on  holy  days. — ''  It  is  really  bread!  " 
said  he,  aloud,  so  great  was  his  astonishment.  '*  Is  this  the  way 
they  scatter  it  in  this  country?  in  such  a  year  too?  and  don't 
they  even  give  themselves  the  trouble  to  pick  up  what  falls?  this 
must  be  the  land  of  Cuccogna!  "  After  ten  miles'  walk  in  the 
fresh  morning  air,  this  bread,  when  he  had  recovered  his  self- 
possession,  aroused  his  appetite. — Shall  I  take  it?  deliberated 
he:  poh!  they  have  left  it  here  to  the  discretion  of  dogs,  and 
surely  a  Christian  may  taste  it.  And,  after  all,  if  the  owner 
comes  forward,  I  will  pay  him. — Thus  reasoning,  he  put  the 
loaf  he  held  in  his  hand  into  one  pocket,  took  up  a  second  and 
put  it  into  the  other,  and  a  third,  which  he  began  to  eat,  and 
then  proceeded  on  his  way,  more  uncertain  than  ever,  and 
longing  to  have  this  strange  mystery  cleared  up.  Scarcely  had 
he  started,  when  he  saw  people  issuing  from  the  interior  of  the 


1/2 


MANZONI 


city,  and  he  stood  still  to  watch  those  who  first  appeared.  They 
were  a  man,  a  woman,  and,  a  little  way  behind,  a  boy :  all  three 
carrying  a  load  on  their  backs  which  seemed  beyond  their 
strength,  and  all  three  in  a  most  extraordinary  condition. 
Their  dress,  or  rather  their  rags,  covered  with  flour,  their  faces 
floured,  and,  at  the  same  time,  distorted  and  much  heated; 
they  walked  not  only  as  if  wearied  by  their  load,  but  trem- 
bling, as  if  their  limbs  had  been  beaten  and  bruised.  The  man 
staggered  under  the  weight  of  a  large  sack  of  flour,  which, 
here  and  there  in  holes,  scattered  a  shower  around  at  every 
stumble,  at  every  disturbance  of  his  equilibrium.  But  the 
figure  of  the  woman  was  still  more  awkward:  an  unwieldy 
bulk,  two  extended  arms  which  seemed  to  bear  it  up  with  difli- 
culty,  and  looked  like  two  carved  handles  from  the  neck  to 
the  widest  part  of  a  large  kilderkin,  and  beneath  this  enormous 
body,  two  legs,  naked  up  to  the  knees,  which  could  scarcely 
totter  along.  Renzo  gazed  steadily  at  this  great  bulk,  and 
discovered  that  it  was  the  woman's  gown  turned  up  around 
her,  with  as  much  flour  in  it  as  it  could  hold,  and  rather  more, 
so  that  from  time  to  time  it  was  scattered  in  handfuls  over  the 
ground.  The  boy  held  with  both  hands  a  basket  full  of  bread 
upon  his  head;  but,  from  having  shorter  legs  than  his  parents, 
he  kept  falling  behind  by  degrees,  and  in  running  forward  to 
overtake  them,  the  basket  lost  its  balance,  and  a  few  loaves  fell. 

"  If  you  let  another  fall,  you  vile,  helpless  .  .  .  ."  said  the 
mother,  gnashing  her  teeth  at  the  child. 

"  I  don't  let  them  fall;  they  fall  themselves.  How  can  I 
help  it?  "  replied  he. 

''  Eh!  it's  well  for  you  that  I  have  my  hands  engaged,"  re- 
joined the  woman,  shaking  her  fist,  as  if  she  would  have  given 
the  poor  child  a  blow;  and  with  this  movement  she  sent  forth 
a  fresh  cloud  of  flour,  enough  to  have  made  more  than  the 
two  loaves  the  boy  had  let  fall. 

'*  Come,  come,"  said  the  man,  "  we  will  go  back  presently 
to  pick  them  up,  or  somebody  will  do  it  for  us :  we  have  been 
a  long  while  in  want:  now  that  we  have  got  a  little  abundance, 
let  us  enjoy  it  in  blessed  peace." 

In  the  mean  time  people  arrived  from  without;  and  one 
of  them,  accosting  the  woman,  ''  Where  must  w^e  go  to  get 
bread?"  asked  he.  ''  Forward,  forward,"  was  her  reply;  and 
when  they  were  a  few  yards  past,  she  added,  muttering, 
"  These  blackguard  peasants  will  come  and  sweep  all  the  bake- 
houses and  magazines,  and  there  will  be  nothing  left  for  us." 

"  There's  a  little  for  everybody,  magpie,"  said  the  husband; 
''  plenty,  plenty." 


THE    BETROTHED 


J  73 


From  this  and  similar  scenes  which  Renzo  heard  and  wit- 
nessed, he  began  to  gather  that  he  had  come  to  a  city  in  a 
state  of  insurrection,  and  that  this  was  a  day  of  victory;  that 
is  to  say,  when  every  one  helped  himself  in  proportion  to  his 
inclination  and  power,  giving  blows  in  payment.  However 
we  may  desire  to  make  our  poor  mountaineer  appear  to  the 
best  advantage,  yet  historical  accuracy  obliges  us  to  say  that„ 
his  first  feeling  was  that  of  satisfaction.  He  had  so  little  to 
rejoice  at  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  that  he  was  inclined 
to  approve  of  anything  that  might  make  a  change,  whatever  it 
might  be.  And  besides,  not  being  a  man  superior  to  his  age, 
he  entertained  the  common  opinion,  or  prejudice,  that  the 
scarcity  of  bread  was  produced  by  monopolists  and  bakers; 
and  readily  did  he  esteem  every  method  justifiable  of  rescuing 
from  their  grasp  the  food,  wdiich  they,  according  to  this  opin- 
ion, so  cruelly  denied  to  the  hunger  of  a  whole  people.  He 
resolved,  however,  to  get  out  of  the  tumult,  and  rejoiced  at 
being  directed  to  a  Capuchin,  who  w^ould  give  him  shelter  and 
good  advice.  Engaged  in  such  thoughts,  and  looking  about 
him  at  the  fresh  victors  who  appeared,  laden  with  spoil,  he 
took  the  short  road  that  still  remained  to  reach  the  convent. 

On  the  present  site  of  a  noble  palace,  with  its  beautiful 
portico,  there  was  formerly,  and  till  within  a  very  few  years,  a 
small  square,  and  at  the  furthest  side  of  this,  the  church  and 
convent  of  the  Capuchins,  with  four  large  elms  standing  before 
them.  We  congratulate,  not  without  envy,  those  of  our  read- 
ers who  have  not  seen  Milan  as  thus  described:  that  is,  be- 
cause they  must  be  very  young,  and  have  not  had  much  time 
to  commit  many  follies.  Renzo  went  straight  to  the  door,  put 
into  his  bosom  the  remaining  half  loaf,  took  out  his  letter 
and  held  it  ready  in  his  hand,  and  rang  the  bell.  A  small 
wicket  was  opened  at  the  summons,  and  the  face  of  the  porter 
appeared  at  the  grate  to  ask  who  was  there. 

''  One  from  the  country,  bringing  an  important  letter  to 
Father  Bonaventura  from  Father  Cristoforo." 

"  Give  it  me,"  said  the  porter,  putting  his  hand  through 
the  grate. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Renzo,  "  I  must  give  it  into  his  own  hands." 

"  He  is  not  in  the  convent." 

"  Let  me  come  in,  then,  and  I  will  wait  for  him,"  replied 
Renzo. 

**  Follow  my  advice,"  rejoined  the  friar;  "go  and  wait  in 
the  church,  where  you  may  be  employing  yourself  profitably. 
You  can*  not  be  admitted  into  the  convent  at  present."  So 
saying,  he  closed  the  wicket. 


174 


MANZONI 


Renzo  stood  irresolute,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  He  then 
took  a  few  steps  toward  the  door  of  the  church,  to  follow  the 
advice  of  the  porter,  but  thought  he  would  first  just  give 
another  glance  at  the  stir  outside.  He  crossed  the  square, 
reached  the  side  of  the  road,  and  stood  with  his  arms  crossed 
on  his  breast  to  watch  the  thickest  and  most  noisy  part  of  the 
crowd  that  was  issuing  from  the  interior  of  the  city.  The  vor- 
tex attracted  our  spectator. — Let  us  go  and  see,  thought  he; 
and  again  taking  out  the  piece  of  bread,  he  began  to  eat,  and 
advanced  toward  the  crowd.  While  he  was  walking  thither, 
we  will  relate,  as  briefly  as  possible,  the  causes  and  beginnings 
of  this  uproar. 


CHAPTER    XII 

THIS  was  the  second  year  of  the  scarcity.  In  the  pre- 
ceding year,  the  surplus  remaining  from  former  seasons 
had  more  or  less  supplied  the  deficiency;  and  the  peo- 
ple, neither  satiated  nor  famished,  but  certainly  suffi- 
ciently unprovided  for,  had  reached  the  harvest  of  1628,  in 
which  our  story  finds  us.  Now,  this  harvest,  so  long  and  ea- 
gerly looked  forward  to,  proved  still  less  productive  than  the 
former,  partly  on  account  of  the  adverse  character  of  the  sea- 
son (and  that  not  only  at  Milan,  but,  in  great  measure,  in  the 
surrounding  country)  and  partly  by  the  agency  of  man.  Such 
were  the  ravages  and  havoc  of  the  war — that  amiable  war  to 
which  we  have  already  alluded — that  in  the  parts  of  the  coun- 
try bordering  on  its  scene,  much  more  land  than  usual  re- 
mained uncultivated  and  deserted  by  the  peasants,  who,  in- 
stead of  working  to  provide  food  for  themselves  and  others, 
were  obliged  to  wander  about  as  beggars.  I  have  said,  more 
than  usual,  because  the  insupportable  taxes,  levied  with  un- 
equalled cupidity  and  folly — the  habitual  conduct,  even  in  per- 
fect peace,  of  the  stationary  troops — conduct  which  the  mourn- 
ful documents  of  the  age  compare  to  that  of  an  invading  ene- 
my— and  other  reasons,  which  this  is  not  the  place  to  enumer- 
ate, had  for  some  time  been  producing  this  sad  effect  through- 
cut  the  whole  of  the  Milanese:  the  particular  circumstances, 
of  which  we  are  now  speaking,  being  but  the  sudden  exacer- 
bation of  a  chronic  disease.  No  sooner  had  this  deficient 
harvest  been  gathered  in,  than  the  provisions  for  the  army, 
and  the  waste  which  always  accompanies  them,  made  such  a 
fearful  void  in  it,  that  scarcity  quickly  made  itself  felt,  and 
w4th  scarcity  its  melancholy,  but  profitable,  as  well  as  inevi- 
table, effect,  a  rise  in  prices. 

But  when  the  price  of  food  reaches  a  certain  point,  there 
always  arises  (at  least,  hitherto  it  has  always  arisen;  and  if  it 
is  so  still,  after  all  that  has  been  written  by  so  many  learned 
men,  what  m^ust  it  have  been  in  those  days!) — there  always 
arises  an  opinion  among  the  many  that  it  is  not  the  effect  of 
scarcity.     They  forgot  that  they  had  foreseen  and  predicted 

175 


176 


MANZONI 


such  an  issue;  they  suddenly  fancy  that  there  is  plenty  of  corn, 
and  that  the  evil  proceeds  from  there  not  being  as  much  dis- 
tributed as  is  required  for  consumption;  propositions  sufii- 
ciently  preposterous,  but  which  flatter  both  their  anger  and 
their  hopes.  Corn  monopolists,  either  real  or  imaginary, 
^  4arge  landholders,  the  bakers  who  purchased  corn,  all,  in 
^^yshort,  who  had  either  little  or  much,  or  were  thought  to  have 
any,  were  charged  with  being  the  causes  of  the  scarcity  and 
dearness  of  provisions;  they  were  the  objects  of  universal 
complaint,  and  of  the  hatred  of  the  multitude  of  every  rank. 
The  populace  could  tell  with  certainty  where  there  were 
magazines  and  granaries  full  and  overflowing  with  coi^,  and 
even  requiring  to  be  propped  up;  they  indicated  most  extrava- 
gant numbers  of  sacks;  they  talked  with  certainty  of  the  im- 
mense quantities  of  grain  secretly  despatched  to  other  places, 
where,  probably,  it  was  asserted  with  equal  assurance  and  equal 
excitement,  that  the  corn  grown  there  was  transported  to 
Milan.  They  implored  from  the  magistrates  those  precau- 
tions which  always  appear,  or,  at  least,  have  always  hitherto 
appeared,  so  equitable,  so  simple,  so  capable  of  drawing  forth 
the  corn  which  they  affirm  to  be  secreted,  walled  up,  or 
buried,  and  of  restoring  to  them  abundance.  The  magistrates, 
therefore,  busied  themselves  in  fixing  the  highest  price  that 
Vv^as  to  be  charged  upon  every  commodity;  in  threatening 
punishment  to  any  one  who  should  refuse  to  sell;  and  making 
other  regulations  of  a  similar  nature.  As,  however,  all  human 
precautions,  how  vigorous  soever,  can  neither  diminish  the 
necessity  of  food,  nor  produce  crops  out  of  season;  and  as 
these  individual  precautions  oflfered  no  very  inviting  terms  to 
other  countries  where  there  might  be  a  superabundance,  the 
evil  continued  and  increased.  The  multitude  attributed  such 
an  effect  to  the  scarcity  and  feebleness  of  the  remedies,  and 
loudly  solicited  some  more  spirited  and  decisive  measures. 
Unfortunately,  they  found  a  man  after  their  own  heart. 

In  the  absence  of  the  governor,  Don  Gonzalo  Fernandez 
de  Cordova,  who  was  encamped  over  Casale  del  Monferrato, 
the  High  Chancellor  Antonio  Ferrer,  also  a  Spaniard,  supplied 
his  place  at  Milan.  This  man  saw  (and  who  could  help  see- 
ing it?)  that  a  moderate  price  on  bread  is  in  itself  a  most  desir- 
able thing;  and  he  thought  (here  was  his  mistake)  that  an  or- 
der from  him  would  suf^ce  to  produce  it.  He  fixed  the  limit 
(la  meta,  by  which  name  the  tarifif  was  distinguished  in  articles 
of  food)  at  the  price  that  bread  would  have  had,  if  the  corn 
had  been  generally  sold  as  thirty-three  livres  the  bushel,  and 
they  sold  it  as  high  as  eighty.     He  acted  like  the  old  woman 


THE   BETROTHED 


177 


who  thought  to  make  herself  young  again  by  changing  her 
baptismal  faith. 

Regulations  less  irrational  and  less  unjust  had,  on  more 
than  one  occasion,  by  the  resistance  of  actual  circumstances, 
remained  unexecuted;  but  that  this  should  be  carried  into 
effect  was  undertaken  by  the  multitude,  who,  seeing  their  de- 
mands at  last  converted  into  a  law,  would  not  suffer  it  to  be 
a  mere  form.  They  immediately  ran  to  the  bake-houses,  to 
demand  bread  at  the  fixed  price;  and  they  required  it  with 
that  air  of  threatening  resolution  which  passion,  force,  and  law 
united  could  impart.  It  need  not  be  asked  if  the  bakers  resist- 
ed. With  sleeves  turned  up,  they  were  busied  in  carrying, 
putting  into  the  oven,  and  taking  out  thence,  without  inter- 
mission ;  for  the  people,  having  a  confused  idea  that  it  was  too 
violent  an  attempt  to  last  long,  besieged  the  bake-houses  in- 
cessantly, to  enjoy  their  temporary  good  fortune;  and  every 
reader  can  imagine  what  a  pleasure  it  must  have  been  to 
drudge  like  a  slave,  and  expose  one's  self  more  than  usually  to 
an  attack  of  pleurisy,  to  be,  after  all,  a  loser  in  consequence. 
But,  with  magistrates  on  one  side  threatening  punishments, 
and  the  people  on  the  other  importunate,  murmuring  at  every 
delay  that  was  interposed  in  serving  them,  and  indefinitely 
menacing  some  one  or  otlier  of  their  chastisements,  which  are 
always  the  worst  that  are  inflicted  in  this  world — there  was  no 
help  for  it;  drudge  they  must;  they  were  forced  to  empty  and 
replenish  their  ovens,  and  sell.  However,  to  keep  them  up  to 
such  employment,  it  was  of  little  avail  to  impose  strict  orders, 
and  keep  them  in  constant  fear:  it  was  a  question  of  absolute 
practicability;  and  had  the  thing  lasted  a  little  longer,  they 
could  have  done  no  more.  They  remonstrated  incessantly 
against  the  iniquitous  and  insupportable  weight  of  the  burden 
laid  upon  them,  and  protested  they  would  willingly  throw  the 
shovel  into  the  oven,  and  take  their  departure;  and  yet  they 
continued  to  persevere  as  they  could,  longing,  hoping,  that 
some  day  or  other,  the  High  Chancellor  would  come  to  his 
senses.  But  Antonio  Ferrer,  who  was  what  would  now  be 
called  a  man  of  character,  replied  that  the  bakers  had  made 
enormous  profits  in  past  times;  that  they  would  make  equally 
great  gains  in  better  times  to  come,  that,  therefore,  it  was  both 
reasonable  and  necessary  that  they  should  now  make  some 
compensation  to  the  public,  and  that,  in  the  mean  while,  they 
must  get  on  as  they  could.  Whether  he  were  really  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  those  reasons  he  alleged  to  others,  or  whether, 
perceiving  from  its  effects  the  impossibility  of  maintaining 
this  regulation,  he  was  willing  to  leave  to  others  the  odium  of 

12 


1^8  MANZONI 

revoking  it;  for  who  can  now  look  into  Antonio  Ferrer's 
mind?  yet  certain  it  is  he  did  not  relax  one  iota  of  what  he  had 
established.  At  length,  the  decurioni  (a  municipal  magis- 
tracy composed  of  nobles,  which  lasted  till  the  ninety-sixth 
year  of  the  last  century)  informed  the  Governor,  by  letter,  of 
the  state  in  which  matters  stood,  hoping  he  might  be  able  to 
suggest  some  remedy. 

Don  Gonzalo,  buried  over  head  in  the  afifairs  of  war,  did 
what  the  reader  will  certainly  imagine:  he  nominated  a  Coun- 
cil, which  he  endowed  with  full  authority  to  fix  such  a  price 
upon  bread  as  could  become  current,  thus  doing  justice  to 
both  parties.  The  deputies  assembled,  or,  as  it  was  expressed, 
after  the  Spanish  fashion,  in  the  jargon  of  those  days,  the 
junta  met;  and,  after  a  hundred  bowings,  compliments,  pre- 
ambles, sighs,  whisperings,  airy  propositions,  and  subterfuges, 
urged,  by  a  necessity  which  all  felt,  to  come  to  some  deter- 
mination, conscious  that  they  were  casting  an  important  die, 
but  aware  that  there  was  no  other  course  to  be  taken,  they  at 
length  agreed  to  augment  the  price  of  bread.  The  bakers 
once  more  breathed,  but  the  people  raved. 

The  evening  preceding  the  day  in  which  Renzo  arrived  at 
Milan,  the  streets  and  squares  swarmed  with  men,  who,  trans- 
ported with  indignation,  and  swayed  by  a  prevailing  opinion, 
assembled — whether  acquaintances  or  strangers — in  knots 
and  parties  without  any  previous  concert,  and  almost  without 
being  aware  of  it,  like  rain-drops  on  a  hill-side.  Every  con- 
versation increased  the  general  belief,  and  roused  the  passions 
of  both  hearer  and  speaker.  Amongst  the  many  excited  ones, 
there  were  some  few  of  cooler  temperament,  who  stood  quietly 
watching  with  great  satisfaction  the  troubling  of  the  water, 
who  busied  themselves  in  troubling  it  more  and  more,  with 
such  reasonings  and  stories  as  rogues  know  how  to  invent, 
and  agitated  minds  are  so  ready  to  believe,  and  who  deter- 
mined not  to  let  it  calm  down  without  first  catching  a  little  fish. 
Thousands  went  to  rest  that  night  with  an  indeterminate  feel- 
ing that  something  must  and  would  be  done.  Crowds  as- 
sembled before  daybreak:  children,  women,  men,  old  people, 
workmen,  beggars,  all  grouped  together  at  random;  here  was 
a  confused  whispering  of  many  voices;  there,  one  declaimed 
to  a  crowd  of  applauding  bystanders;  this  one  asked  his  near- 
est fellow  the  same  question  that  had  just  been  put  to  him- 
self; that  other  repeated  the  exclamation  that  he  heard  re- 
sounding in  his  ears;  everywhere  were  disputes,  threats,  won- 
derings;  and  very  few  words  made  up  the  materials  of  so 
many  conversations. 


THE   BETROTHED 


179 


There  only  wanted  something  to  lay  hold  of:  some  be- 
ginning, some  kind  of  impetus  to  reduce  words  to  deeds,  and 
this  was  not  long  wanting.  Toward  daybreak,  little  boys 
issued  from  the  bakers'  shops,  carrying  baskets  of  bread  to  the 
houses  of  their  usual  customers.  The  first  appearance  of  one 
of  these  unlucky  boys  in  a  crowd  of  people,  was  like  the  fall 
of  a  lighted  squib  in  a  gunpowder  magazine.  *'  Let  us  see  if 
there's  bread  here!"  exclaimed  a  hundred  voices,  in  an  in- 
stant. "  Ay,  for  the  tyrants  who  roll  in  abundance,  and  would 
let  us  starve  of  hunger,"  said  one,  approaching  the  boy;  and, 
raising  his  hand  to  the  edge  of  the  basket,  he  snatched  at  it, 
and  exclaimed,  "  Let  me  see!  "  The  boy  coloured,  turned 
pale,  trembled,  and  tried  to  say,  "  Let  me  go  on;"  but  the 
words  died  between  his  lips,  and  slackening  his  arms,  he  en- 
deavoured to  disengage  them  hastily  from  the  straps. 

*' Down  with  the  basket!"  was  the  instantaneous  cry. 
Many  hands  seized  it,  and  brought  it  to  the  ground ;  they  then 
threw  the  cloth  that  covered  it  into  the  air.  A  tepid  fragrance 
was  diffused  around.  *'  We,  too,  are  Christians :  we  must  have 
bread  to  eat,"  said  the  first.  He  took  out  a  loaf,  and,  raising 
it  in  the  view  of  the  crowd,  began  to  eat:  in  an  instant  all  hands 
were  in  the  basket,  and  in  less  time  than  one  can  relate  it,  all 
had  disappeared.  Those  who  had  got  none  of  the  spoil,  irri- 
tated at  the  sight  of  what  the  others  had  gained,  and  animated 
by  the  facility  of  the  enterprise,  moved  off  by  parties  in  quest 
of  other  straying  baskets,  which  were  no  sooner  met  with  than 
they  were  pillaged  immediately.  Nor  was  it  necessary  to  at- 
tack the  bearers :  those  who  unfortunately  were  on  their  way, 
as  soon  as  they  saw  which  way  the  wind  blew,  voluntarily  laid 
down  their  burdens  and  took  to  their  heels.  Nevertheless, 
those  who  remained  without  a  supply  were  beyond  compari- 
son the  greater  part;  nor  were  the  victors  half  satisfied  with 
such  insignificant  spoil;  and  some  there  were  mingled  in  the 
crowds  who  had  resolved  upon  a  much  better  regulated  at- 
tack.   "  To  the  bake-house,  to  the  bake-house!  "  was  the  cry. 

In  the  street  called  La  Corsia  de'  Servi  was  a  bake-house, 
which  is  still  there,  bearing  the  same  name — a  name  that,  in 
Tuscan,  means  "  The  Bakery  of  the  Crutches,"  and,  in  Milan- 
ese is  composed  of  words  so  extravagant,  so  whimsical,  so  out- 
of-the-way,  that  the  alphabet  of  the  Italian  language  does  not 
afford  letters  to  express  its  sound.  In  this  direction  the  crowd 
advanced.  The  people  of  the  shop  were  busy  questioning  the 
poor  boy  who  had  returned  unladen,  and  he,  pale  with  terror, 
and  greatly  discomposed,  was  unintelligibly  relating  his  unfor- 
tunate adventure,  when  suddenly  they  heard  a  noise  as  of  a 


I  So  MANZONI 

crowd  in  motion:  it  increases  and  approaches;  the  forerun- 
ners of  the  crowd  are  in  sight.  \ 

''  Shut,  lock  up;  quick,  quick!  "  one  runs  to  beg  assistance 
from  the  sheriff;  the  others  hastily  shut  up  the  shop,  and  bolt 
and  bar  the  doors  inside.  The  multitudes  begin  to  increase 
without,  and  the  cries  redouble  of — "Bread!  bread!  Open! 
open! " 

At  this  juncture  the  sheriff  arrived,  in  the  midst  of  a  troop 
of  halberdiers.  ''  Make  room,  make  room,  my  boys;  go 
home,  go  home:  make  room  for  the  sheriff!  "  cried  he.  The 
throng,  not  too  much  crowded,  gave  way  a  little,  so  that  the 
halberdiers  could  advance  and  get  close  to  the  door  of  the 
shop,  though  not  in  a  very  orderly  manner.  "  But,  my 
friends,"  said  the  sheriff,  addressing  the  people  from  there, 
**  what  are  you  doing  here?  Go  home,  go  home.  Where  is 
your  fear  of  God?  What  will  our  master  the  King  say?  We 
don't  wish  to  do  you  any  harm,  but  go  home,  like  good  fellows. 
What  in  the  world  can  you  do  here,  in  such  a  crush?  There 
is  nothing  good  to  be  got  here,  either  for  the  soul  or  body. 
Go  home,  go  home !  "  But  how  were  those  next  the  speaker, 
who  saw  his  face  and  could  hear  his  words,  even  had  they  been 
willing  to  obey — how  were  they  to  accomplish  it,  urged  for- 
ward as  they  were,  and  almost  trampled  upon  by  those  be- 
hind; who,  in  their  turn,  were  trodden  upon  by  others,  like 
wave  upon  wave,  and  step  upon  step,  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
rapidly-increasing  throng?  The  sherifif  began  to  feel  a  little 
alarmed.  "  Make  them  give  way,  that  I  may  get  a  little 
breath,"  said  he  to  his  halberdiers;  "but  don't  hurt  anybody. 
Let  us  try  to  get  into  the  shop.  Knock;  make  them  give 
way !  " 

"Back!  back!"  cried  the  halberdiers,  throwing  them- 
selves in  a  body  upon  their  nearest  neighbours,  and  pushing 
them  back  with  the  point  of  their  weapons.  The  people  re- 
plied with  a  grumbling  shout,  and  retreated  as  they  could,  dis- 
persing blows  on  the  breast  and  stomach  in  profusion,  and 
treading  upon  the  toes  of  those  behind:  while  such  was  the 
general  rush,  the  squeezing  and  trampling,  that  those  who 
were  in  the  middle  of  the  throng  would  have  given  anything 
to  have  been  elsewhere.  In  the  mean  while,  a  small  space  was 
cleared  before  the  house;  the  sherifif  knocked  and  kicked 
against  the  door,  calling  to  those  within  to  open  it:  these,  see- 
ing from  the  window  how  things  stood,  ran  down  In  haste  and 
admitted  the  sherifif,  followed  by  the  halberdiers,  who  crept  in 
one  after  another,  the  last  repulsing  the  crowd  with  their 
weapons.    When  all  were  secured,  they  rebolted  the  door,  and, 


THE   BETROTHED  l8i 

running  up-stairs,  the  sheriff  displayed  himself  at  the  window. 
We  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  the  outcry! 

"  My  friends!  "  cried  he:  many  looked  up.  "  My  friends! 
go  home.    A  general  pardon  to  all  who  go  home  at  once!  " 

**  Bread!  bread!  Open!  open!"  were  the  most  conspicu- 
ous words  in  the  savage  vociferations  the  crowd  sent  forth  in 

"Justice,  my  friends!  take  care;  you  have  yet  time  given 
you.  Come,  get  away;  return  to  your  houses.  You  shall 
have  bread;  but  this  is  not  the  way  to  get  it.  Eh!  .  .  .  , 
eh!  what  are  you  doing  down  there?  Eh!  at  this  door?  Fie, 
fie  upon  you!  I  see,  I  see:  justice!  take  care!  It  is  a  great 
crime.  I'm  coming  to  you.  Eh!  eh!  away  with  those  irons; 
down  with  those  hands!  Fie!  you  Milanese,  who  are  talked 
of  all  over  the  world  for  peaceableness!  Listen!  listen!  you 
have  always  been  good  sub  ....  Ah,  you  rascals ! " 

This  rapid  transition  of  style  was  caused  by  a  stone,  which, 
coming  from  the  hands  of  one  of  these  good  subjects,  struck 
the  forehead  of  the  sheriff,  on  the  left  protuberance  of  his 
metaphysical  profundities.  "Rascals!  rascals!"  continued 
he,  shutting  the  window  in  a  rage,  and  retiring  from  view. 
But  though  he  had  shouted  to  the  extent  of  the  powers  of  his 
throat,  his  words,  both  good  and  bad,  had  vanished  and  con- 
sumed in  thin  air,  repulsed  by  the  cries  which  came  from  be- 
low. The  objects  that  now,  as  he  afterward  described,  pre- 
sented themselves  to  his  view,  were  stones  and  iron  bars  (the 
first  they  could  lay  hold  of  by  the  way),  with  which  they  tried 
to  force  open  the  doors  and  windows;  and  they  already  had 
made  considerable  progress  in  their  work. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  masters  and  shop-boys  appeared  at 
the  upper  windows,  armed  with  stones  (they  had  probably  un- 
paved  the  yard),  and  crying  out  to  those  below,  with  horrible 
looks  and  gestures,  to  let  them  alone,  they  showed  their  weap- 
ons, and  threatened  to  let  fly  among  them.  Seeing  that  noth- 
ing else  would  avail,  they  began  to  throw  at  them  in  reality. 
Not  one  fell  in  vain,  since  the  press  was  such  that  even  a  grain 
of  corn,  as  the  saying  was,  could  not  have  reached  the  ground. 

"  Ah!  you  great  vagabonds!  you  great  villains!  Is  this  the 
bread  you  give  to  poor  people?  Ah!  alas!  oh!  Now,  now, 
at  us?"  was  raised  from  below.  Alore  than  one  was  injured, 
and  two  boys  were  killed.  Fury  increased  the  strength  of  the 
people;  the  doors  and  bars  gave  way;  and  the  crowd  poured 
into  the  passages  in  torrents.  Those  within,  perceiving  their 
danger,  took  refuge  in  the  garrets:  the  sheriff,  the  halberdiers, 
and  a  few  of  the  household  gathered  together  here  in  a  corner, 


1 82  MANZONI 

under  the  slates;  and  others,  escaping  by  the  skyHghts,  wan- 
dered about  on  the  roof  hke  cats. 

The  sight  of  the  spoil  made  the  victors  forget  their  designs 
of  sanguinary  vengeance.  They  flew  upon  the  large  chests, 
and  instantly  pillaged  them.  Others,  instead,  hastened  to 
tear  open  the  counter,  seized  the  tills,  took  out  by  handfuls, 
pocketed  and  set  off  with,  the  money,  to  return  for  bread  after- 
ward, if  there  remained  any.  The  crowd  dispersed  themselves 
through  the  interior  magazines.  Some  laid  hold  of  the  sacks 
and  drew  them  out;  others  turned  them  wrong  side  upward, 
and  untying  the  mouth,  to  reduce  them  to  a  weight  which  they 
could  manage  to  carry,  shook  out  some  of  the  flour;  others 
crying  out,  ''Stay,  stay!"  came  underneath  to  prevent  this 
waste,  by  catching  it  in  their  clothes  and  aprons;  others,  again, 
fell  upon  a  kneading-trough,  and  seized  the  dough,  which  ran 
over  their  hands  and  escaped  their  grasp  on  every  side: 
here,  one  who  had  snatched  up  a  meal-sieve,  came  brandish- 
ing it  in  the  ear.  Some  come,  some  go,  some  handle:  men, 
women,  children,  swarm  around;  pushes,  blows,  and  cries  are 
bandied  about;  and  a  white  powder  that  rises  in  clouds  and 
deposits  itself  in  every  direction,  involves  the  whole  proceed- 
ing in  a  thick  mist.  Outside,  is  a  crowd  composed  of  two  re- 
verse processions,  which  alternately  separate  and  intermingle, 
some  going  out  with  their  prey,  others  entering  to  share  the 
spoil. 

While  this  bake-house  was  being  thus  plundered,  none  of 
the  others  were  quiet  and  free  from  danger;  but  at  none  had 
the  people  assembled  in  such  numbers  as  to  be  very  daring. 
In  some,  the  masters  had  collected  a  few  auxiliaries,  and  stood 
upon  their  defence:  others,  less  strong  in  numbers,  or  more 
terrified,  came  to  some  kind  of  agreement;  they  distributed 
bread  to  those  who  had  begun  to  crowd  around  their  shops, 
if  they  would  be  content  with  this  and  go  away.  Those  who 
did  withdraw,  did  so  not  so  much  because  they  were  contented 
with  their  acquisitions,  as  because  the  halberdiers  and  police, 
keeping  at  a  distance  from  the  tremendous  scene  at  the  Bake- 
house of  the  Crutches,  appeared,  nevertheless,  elsewhere  in 
sufficient  force  to  keep  in  awe  these  small  parties  of  mutineers. 
By  this  means,  the  confusion  and  concourse  continued  to  aug- 
ment at  this  first  unfortunate  bake-house;  for  all  those  whose 
fingers  itched  to  be  at  work,  and  whose  hearts  were  set  upon 
doing  some  great  deed,  repaired  thither,  where  their  friends 
were  in  greatest  numbers,  and  impunity  was  secure. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things,  when  Renzo,  finishing,  as 
we  have  related,  his  piece  of  bread,  came  to  the  suburb  of  the 


THE   BETROTHED  183 

Porta  Orientale,  and  set  off,  without  being  aware  of  it,  exactly 
to  the  central  scene  of  the  tumult.  He  continued  his  way,  now 
urged  forward,  now  hindered,  by  the  crowd ;  and  as  he  walked, 
he  watched  and  listened,  to  gather  from  the  confused  murmur 
of  voices  some  more  positive  information  of  the  state  of  things. 
The  following  are  nearly  the  words  he  caught  on  his  way: 

*'  Now,"  said  one,  "  the  infamous  imposture  of  these  vil- 
lains is  discovered,  who  said  that  there  was  no  more  bread,  nor 
flour,  nor  corn.  Now  we  see  things  clearly  and  distinctly,  and 
thev  can  no  longer  deceive  us  as  they  have  done.  Hurrah  for 
plenty!" 

**  I  tell  you  all  this  just  goes  for  nothing,"  said  another; 
**  it  is  only  like  making  a  hole  in  w^ater;  so  that  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  us,  if  we  don't  get  full  justice  done  us.  Bread  will 
be  sold  at  a  low  price;  but  they  will  put  poison  in  it  to  kill  us 
poor  people  like  flies.  They've  said  already  that  we  are  too 
many:  they  said  so  in  the  council;  and  I  know  it  for  certain, 
because  I  heard  it  with  these  ears  from  an  acquaintance  of 
mine,  who  is  the  friend  of  a  relation  of  a  scullion  of  one  of  these 
lords." 

''  They  are  not  things  to  be  laughed  at,"  said  another  poor 
wretch,  who  was  foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  holding  up  to  his 
bleeding  head  a  ragged  pocket-handkerchief;  some  neighbour, 
by  way  of  consolation,  echoing  his  remark. 

*'  Make  way,  gentlemen :  pray  be  good  enough  to  make 
w^ay  for  a  poor  father  of  a  family,  who  is  carrying  something  to 
eat  to  five  famished  children."  These  were  the  words  of  one 
who  came  staggering  under  the  weight  of  a  large  sack  of 
flour;  and  everybody  instantly  drew  back  to  attend  to  his  re- 
quest. 

"  I,"  said  another,  almost  in  an  under-tone,  to  his  com- 
panion, *'  I  shall  take  my  departure.  I  am  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  I  know  how  these  things  go.  These  clowns  who  now 
make  so  much  noise,  to-morrow  or  next  day  will  be  shut  up  in 
their  houses,  cowering  with  fear.  I  have  already  noticed  some 
faces,  some  worthy  fellows,  who  are  going  about  as  spies,  and 
taking  note  of  those  who  are  here  and  not  here;  and  when  all 
is  over  they  will  render  in  an  account,  and  bring  punishment 
on  those  who  deserve  it." 

"  He  who  protects  the  bakers,"  cried  a  sonorous  voice, 
which  attracted  Renzo's  attention,  *'  is  the  superintendent  of 
provisions." 

"  They  are  all  rascals,"  said  a  bystander. 

"  Yes;  but  he  is  at  the  head  of  them,"  replied  the  first. 

The  superintendent  of  provisions,  elected  every  year  by  the 


1 84  MANZONI 

governor  from  a  list  of  six  nobles  formed  by  the  council  of 
decurioni,  was  the  president  of  this  council,  as  well  as  of  the 
court  of  provisions,  which,  composed  of  twelve  noblemen,  had, 
together  with  other  duties,  that  of  overlooking  the  distribution 
of  corn  in  the  city.  The  person  who  occupied  this  post  must, 
necessarily,  in  times  of  scarcity  and  ignorance,  have  been  re- 
garded as  the  author  of  the  evil,  unless  he  had  acted  like  Ferrer 
— a  course  which  was  not  in  his  power,  even  had  the  idea  en- 
tered his  mind. 

"Rascals!"  exclaimed  another;  "could  they  do  worse? 
They  have  actually  dared  to  say  that  the  high  chancellor  is  an 
old  fool,  to  rob  him  of  his  credit,  and  get  the  government  into 
their  own  hands.  We  ought  to  make  a  large  hen-coop,  and 
put  them  in,  to  live  upon  vetches  and  cockle-weed,  as  they 
would  treat  us." 

"  Bread,  eh!  "  said  one  who  was  making  as  great  haste  as 
he  could.  "  Bread?  Blows  with  stones  of  a  pound  weight — 
stones  falling  plump,  that  came  down  like  hail.  And  such 
breaking  of  ribs!     I  long  to  be  at  my  own  house." 

Among  such  sentences  as  these,  by  which  it  is  difificult  to 
say  whether  he  were  more  informed  or  perplexed,  and  among 
numberless  knocks  and  pushes,  Renzo  at  last  arrived  opposite 
the  bake-house.  The  crowds  here  had  considerably  dispersed, 
so  that  he  could  contemplate  the  dismal  scene  of  recent  con- 
fusion— the  walls  unplastered  and  defaced  with  stones  and 
bricks,  the  windows  broken,  and  the  door  destroyed. 

"  These  are  no  very  fine  doings,"  thought  Renzo  to  him- 
self: "  if  they  treat  all  the  bake-houses  in  this  way,  where  will 
they  make  bread?    In  the  ditches?  " 

From  time  to  time  somebody  would  issue  from  the  house, 
carrying  part  of  a  bin,  of  a  tub,  or  of  a  bolting  hutch,  the  pole 
of  a  kneading  instrument,  a  bench,  a  basket,  a  journal,  a  waste- 
book,  or  something  belonging  to  this  unfortunate  bake-house; 
and  shouting,  "Make  room,  make  room!"  would  pass  on 
through  the  crowd.  All  these,  he  observed,  went  in  the  same 
direction,  and  to  some  fixed  place.  Renzo,  determined  to  find 
out  the  meaning  of  this  procedure,  followed  behind  a  man 
who,  having  tied  toe^ether  a  bundle  of  broken  planks  and  chips, 
carried  it  ofif  on  his  back,  and,  like  the  others,  took  the  road 
that  runs  along  the  northern  side  of  the  cathedral,  and  re- 
ceives its  name  from  the  flight  of  steps  which  was  then  in  ex- 
istence, and  has  only  lately  been  removed.  The  wish  of  ob- 
serving what  happened  did  not  prevent  our  mountaineer,  on 
arriving  in  sight  of  this  noble  pile,  from  stopping  to  gaze 
upward,  with  open  mouth.     He  then  quickened  his  pace  to 


THE   BETROTHED  185 

overtake  his  self-chosen  guide;  and,  on  turning  the  corner, 
gave  another  glance  at  the  front  of  the  building,  at  that  time 
in  a  rude  and  far  from  finished  state,  keeping  all  the  while 
close  behind  his  leader,  who  advanced  toward  the  middle  of 
the  square.  The  crowds  became  more  dense  as  he  went  for- 
ward, but  they  made  way  for  the  carrier;  and  while  he  cleft 
the  waves  of  people,  Renzo,  following  in  his  wake,  arrived 
wdth  him  in  the  very  centre  of  the  throng.  Here  was  a  space, 
and  in  the  midst  a  bonfire,  a  heap  of  embers,  the  relics  of 
the  implements  before  mentioned.  Around,  the  people  were 
dancing  and  clapping  their  hands,  mingling  in  the  uproar  a 
thousand  shouts  of  triumph  and  imprecation. 

The  man  with  the  bundle  upset  it  into  the  embers;  others, 
with  a  long,  half-burnt  pole,  gathered  them  up  and  raked  them 
together  from  the  sides  and  underneath:  the  smoke  increased 
and  thickened,  the  flame  again  burst  forth,  and  with  it,  the  re- 
doubled cries  of  the  by-standers:  **  Hurrah  for  plenty!  Death 
to  those  who  would  starve  us !  Away  with  the  famine !  Perish 
the  Court  of  Provision!  Perish  the  junta!  Hurrah  for 
plenty !     Hurrah  for  bread !  " 

To  say  the  truth,  the  destruction  of  sieves  and  kneading- 
troughs,  the  pillaging  of  bake-houses,  and  the  routing  of 
bakers,  are  not  the  most  expeditious  means  of  providing  a  sup- 
ply of  bread;  but  this  is  one  of  those  metaphysical  subtleties 
which  never  enter  the  mind  of  the  multitude.  Renzo,  with- 
out being  of  too  metaphysical  a  turn,  yet  not  being  in  such  a 
state  of  excitement  as  the  others,  could  not  avoid  making 
this  reflection  in  his  mind;  he  kept  it,  however,  to  himself,  for 
this,  among  other  reasons:  because,  out  of  so  many  faces, 
there  was  not  one  that  seemed  to  say,  "  My  friend,  if  I  am 
wrong,  correct  me,  and  I  shall  be  indebted  to  you." 

The  flame  had  again  sunk;  no  one  was  seen  approaching 
with  fresh  combustibles,  and  the  crowd  was  beginning  to  feel 
impatient,  when  a  rumour  was  spread  that  at  the  Cordusio  (a 
small  square  or  cross-way  not  far  distant)  they  had  laid  siege 
to  a  bake-house.  In  similar  circumstances,  the  announcement 
of  an  event  very  often  produces  it.  Together  with  this  ru- 
mour, a  general  wish  to  repair  thither  gained  ground  among 
the  multitude:  ''  I  am  going;  are  you  going?  Let  us  go,  let  us 
go!  "  were  heard  in  every  direction;  the  crowd  broke  up,  were 
set  in  motion,  and  moved  on.  Renzo  remained  behind,  almost 
stationary,  except  when  dragged  forward  by  the  torrent;  and 
in  the  mean  while  held  counsel  with  himself,  whether  he  should 
make  his  escape  from  the  stir,  and  return  to  the  convent  in 
search  of  Father  Bonaventura,  or  go  and  see  this  afifray  too. 


1 86  MANZONI 

Curiosity  prevailed.  He  resolved,  however,  not  to  mingle  in 
the  thickest  of  the  crowd,  at  the  risk  of  broken  bones,  or  some- 
thing worse;  but  to  keep  at  a  distance  and  watch.  Having 
determined  on  his  plans,  and  finding  himself  tolerably  unob- 
served, he  took  out  the  second  roll,  and,  biting  off  a  mouthful, 
moved  forward  in  the  rear  of  the  tumultuous  body. 

By  the  outlet  at  one  corner  of  the  square,  the  multitude 
had  already  entered  the  short  and  narrow  street  Pescheria  vec- 
chia,  and  thence,  through  the  crooked  archway,  into  the  Piazza 
de'  Mercanti.  Very  few  were  there  who,  in  passing  the  niche 
which  divides,  about  the  centre,  the  terrace  of  the  edifice  then 
called  the  College  of  Doctors,  did  not  cast  a  slight  glance  up- 
ward at  the  great  statue  that  adorns  it — at  that  serious,  surly, 
frowning,  morose  countenance  of  Don  Filippo  H,  which,  even 
in  marble,  enforces  a  feeling  of  respect,  and  seems  ready  to 
say,  **  I  am  here,  you  rabble !  " 

This  niche  is  now  empty,  by  a  singular  accident.  About 
a  hundred  and  seventy  years  after  the  events  we  are  now  re- 
lating, one  morning  the  head  of  the  statue  that  stood  there  was 
exchanged,  the  sceptre  was  taken  out  of  his  hand,  and  a  dag- 
ger was  placed  there  instead,  and  on  the  statue  was  inscribed 
the  name  of  Marcus  Brutus.  Thus  adorned,  it  remained,  per- 
haps, a  couple  of  years;  but,  one  morning,  some  persons  who 
had  no  sympathies  with  Marcus  Brutus,  and  who  must  even 
have  borne  him  a  secret  grudge,  threw  a  rope  around  the 
statue,  tore  it  down,  and  bestowed  upon  it  a  hundred  injuries; 
thus  mangled,  and  reduced  to  a  shapeless  trunk,  they  dragged 
it  along  with  a  profuse  accompaniment  of  epithets  through  the 
streets,  and  when  they  were  well  tired,  threw  it — no  one  knows 
where.  Who  would  have  foretold  this  to  Andrea  Biffi,  when 
he  sculptured  it? 

From  the  square  of  the  Mercanti  the  clamorous  multitude 
turned  into  the  by-street  de'  Fustagnai,  whence  they  poured 
into  the  Cordusio.  Every  one,  immediately  on  entering  the 
square,  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  bake-house  that  had  been 
indicated  to  them.  But,  instead  of  the  crowd  of  friends  whom 
they  expected  to  find  already  at  work,  they  saw  only  a  few, 
irresolutely  hovering  about  at  some  distance  from  the  shop, 
which  was  fastened  up,  and  protected  by  armed  men  at  the  win- 
dows, who  gave  tokens  of  a  determination  to  defend  themselves 
in  case  of  need.  They,  therefore,  turned  back  and  paused, 
to  inform  those  who  were  coming  up,  and  see  what  course  the 
others  would  wish  to  take;  some  returned,  or  remained  be- 
hind. There  was  a  general  retreat  and  detention,  asking  and 
answering  of  questions,  a  kind  of  stagnation,  signs  of  irresolu- 


THE   BETROTHED  1 87 

tion,  then  a  general  murmur  of  consultation.  At  this  moment 
an  ill-omened  voice  was  heard  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd:  "  The 
house  of  the  superintendent  of  provisions  is  close  by;  let  us  go 
and  get  justice,  and  lay  siege  to  it."  It  seemed  rather  the  com- 
mon recollection  of  an  agreement  already  concluded,  than  the 
acceptance  of  a  proposal.  "To  the  superintendent's!  to  the 
superintendent's!  "  was  the  only  cry  that  could  be  heard.  The 
crowd  moved  forward  with  unanimous  fury  toward  the  street 
where  the  house,  named  at  such  an  ill  fated  moment,  was 
situated. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE  unfortunate  superintendent  was  at  this  moment  di- 
gesting a  poor  and  scanty  dinner,  unwillingly  eaten  with 
a  little  stale  bread,  and  awaiting,  with  much  suspense, 
the  termination  of  this  storm,  far  from  suspecting  that 
it  was  about  to  fall  with  such  violence  upon  his  own  head. 
Some  benevolent  person  preceded  the  crowd  in  urgent  haste, 
and  entered  the  house  to  warn  him  of  his  pressing  danger. 
The  servants,  already  attracted  to  the  door  by  the  noise,  were 
looking  with  much  alarm  up  the  street,  in  the  direction  of  the 
approaching  tumult.  While  listening  to  the  warning,  the  van- 
guard came  in  sight;  they  ran  in  haste  and  terror  to  inform 
their  master,  and  while  he  was  deliberating  whether  he  should 
fly,  and  how  he  should  accomplish  it,  some  one  else  arrived  to 
tell  him  there  was  no  longer  time  for  flight.  Scarcely  was  there 
time  for  the  servants  to  secure  the  door.  They,  however, 
barred  and  locked  it,  and  then  ran  to  fasten  the  windows,  as 
when  a  violent  storm  is  threatening,  and  the  hail  is  expected  to 
come  down  every  moment.  The  increasing  howls  of  the  peo- 
ple, falling  like  a  thunder-clap,  resounded  through  the  empty 
yard;  every  corner  of  the  house  re-echoed  it;  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  tremendous  and  mingled  uproar,  were  heard,  loudly  and 
repeatedly,  the  blows  of  stones  upon  the  door. 

''The  superintendent!  The  tyrant!  The  fellow  who 
would  starve  us !     We'll  have  him,  dead  or  alive !  " 

The  poor  man  wandered  from  room  to  room,  pale  and 
almost  breathless  with  terror,  striking  his  hands  together,  com- 
mending himself  to  God,  and  imploring  his  servants  to  stand 
firm,  and  find  him  some  way  of  making  his  escape.  But  how, 
and  where?  He  ascended  to  the  garret,  and  there,  through  an 
aperture  between  the  ceiling  and  the  tiles,  looked  anxiously 
into  the  street,  and  saw  it  swarming  with  the  enraged  populace; 
more  terrified  than  ever,  he  then  withdrew  to  seek  the  most 
secure  and  secret  hiding-place  he  could  find.  Here  he 
crouched  down  and  listened  whether  the  awful  burst  of  fury 
would  ever  subside,  and  the  tumult  ever  abate;  but  hearing 

i83 


THE   BETROTHED 


189 


that  the  uproar  rather  became  more  savage  and  outrageous, 
and  the  blows  against  the  door  more  rapidly  repeated,  his  heart 
sank  within  him,  and  he  hastily  stopped  his  ears.  Then,  as  if 
beside  himself,  gnashing  his  teeth  and  distorting  his  counte- 
nance, he  impetuously  extended  his  arms,  and  shook  his  fists, 
as  if  he  would  keep  the  door  secure  spite  of  all  the  pushes  and 
blows.  At  last,  in  absolute  despair,  he  sank  down  upon  the 
floor,  and  remained  terrified  and  almost  insensible,  expecting 
his  death. 

Renzo  found  himself  this  time  in  the  thickest  of  the  con- 
fusion, not  now  carried  there  by  the  throng,  but  by  his  own 
deliberate  will.  At  the  first  proposal  of  blood-shedding,  he  felt 
his  own  curdle  within  him;  as  to  the  plundering,  he  had  not 
exactly  determined  whether,  in  this  instance,  it  were  right  or 
wrong;  but  the  idea  of  murder  aroused  in  him  immediate  and 
unfeigned  horror.  And  although,  by  that  fatal  submission  of 
excited  minds  to  the  excited  affirmations  of  the  many,  he  felt 
as  fully  persuaded  that  the  superintendent  was  an  aggressive 
villain,  as  if  he  had  known,  w^ith  certainty  and  minuteness,  all 
that  the  unhappy  man  had  done,  omitted,  and  thought;  yet  he 
had  advanced  among  the  foremost,  with  a  determined  inten- 
tion of  doing  his  best  to  save  him.  With  this  resolution,  he 
had  arrived  close  to  the  door  which  was  assailed  in  a  hun- 
dred ways.  Some,  with  flints,  were  hammering  at  the  nails  of 
the  lock  to  break  it  open;  others,  with  stakes,  chisels,  and  ham- 
mers, set  to  work  with  more  method  and  regularity.  Others, 
again,  with  sharp  stones,  blunted  knives,  broken  pieces  of  iron, 
nails,  and  even  their  finger-nails,  if  they  had  nothing  else, 
pulled  down  the  plaster  and  defaced  the  walls,  and  laboured 
hard  to  loosen  the  bricks  by  degrees,  so  as  to  make  a  breach. 
Those  who  could  not  lend  a  hand,  encouraged  the  others  by 
their  cries;  but,  at  the  same  time,  by  the  pressure  of  their  per- 
sons they  contributed  to  impede  the  work  already  considerably 
obstructed  by  the  disorderly  contentions  of  the  workers:  for, 
by  the  favour  of  Heaven,  it  sometimes  happens  in  evil  under- 
takings, as  too  often  in  good,  that  the  most  ardent  abettors  of 
a  work  become  its  greatest  impediments. 

The  first  magistrates  who  had  notice  of  the  insurrection 
immediately  sent  off  to  the  commander  of  the  castle,  which 
then  bore  the  name  of  Porta  Giovia,  for  the  assistance  of  some 
troops;  and  he  quickly  despatched  a  band  of  men.  But  what 
with  the  information,  and  the  orders,  and  the  assembling,  and 
getting  on  their  way,  and  their  march,  the  troops  did  not  arrive 
till  the  house  was  completely  surrounded  by  an  immense  army 
of  besiegers,  and  they,  therefore,  halted  at  a  sufHcient  distance 


190 


MANZONI 


from  it,  at  the  extremity  of  the  crowd.  The  officer  who  com- 
manded them  knew  not  what  course  to  pursue.  Here  was 
nothing  but  an  assembly  of  idle  and  unarmed  people,  of  every 
age  and  both  sexes.  On  orders  being  given  to  disperse  and 
make  way,  they  replied  by  a  deep  and  prolonged  murmur;  but 
no  one  moved.  To  fire  down  upon  the  crowd  seemed  to  the 
officer  not  only  a  cruel  but  a  dangerous  course,  which,  while  it 
offended  the  less  formidable,  would  irritate  the  more  violent: 
besides,  he  had  received  no  such  instructions.  To  push 
through  this  first  assembly,  overthrow  them  right  and  left,  and 
go  forward  to  carry  war  where  it  was  given,  would  have  been 
the  best;  but  how  to  succeed  was  the  point.  Who  knew  wheth- 
er the  soldiers  would  be  able  to  proceed,  united  and  in  order? 
For  if,  instead  of  breaking  through  the  crowd,  they  should 
be  routed  on  entering,  they  would  be  left  to  the  mercy  of  the 
people,  after  having  exasperated  them.  The  irresolution  of 
the  commander,  and  the  inactivity  of  the  soldiers,  appeared, 
whether  justly  or  not,  to  proceed  from  fear.  Those  who  stood 
next  to  them  contented  themselves  with  looking  them  in  the 
face  with  an  air,  as  the  Milanese  say,  of  I-don't-care-for-you; 
those  who  stood  a  little  farther  off,  could  not  refrain  from 
provoking  them,  by  making  faces  at  them,  and  by  cries  of 
mockery;  farther  on,  few  knew  or  cared  who  was  there;  the 
spoilers  continued  to  batter  the  w^all,  without  any  other 
thought  than  of  succeeding  quickly  in  their  undertaking;  the 
spectators  ceased  not  to  animate  them  with  shouts. 

Among  these  appeared  one,  who  was  himself  a  spectacle, 
an  old  and  half-starved  man,  who,  rolling  about  two  sunken 
and  fiery  eyes,  composing  his  wrinkled  face  to  a  smile  of  dia- 
bolical complacency,  and  with  his  hands  raised  above  his  in- 
famous hoary  head,  was  brandishing  in  the  air  a  hammer,  a 
rope,  and  four  large  nails,  with  which  he  said  he  meant  to  nail 
the  vicar  to  the  posts  of  his  own  door,  alive  as  he  was. 

"  Fie  upon  you !  for  shame !  "  burst  forth  from  Renzo,  hor- 
rified at  such  words,  and  at  the  sight  of  so  many  faces  betoken- 
ing approbation  of  them;  at  the  same  time  encouraged  by  see- 
ing others,  who,  although  silent,  betrayed  in  their  countenances 
the  same  horror  that  he  felt.  "  For  shame !  Would  you  take 
the  executioner's  business  out  of  his  hand?  Murder  a  Chris- 
tian! How  can  you  expect  that  God  will  give  us  food,  if  we  do 
such  wicked  things?  He  will  send  us  thunderbolts  instead  of 
bread!" 

"  Ah,  dog!  traitor  to  his  country!  "  cried  one  of  those  who 
could  hear,  in  the  uproar,  these  sacred  words,  turning  to  Ren- 
zo with  a  diabolical  countenance.     ''Wait,  wait!     He  is'serv- 


THE   BETROTHED. 


191 


ant  of  the  superintendent's,  dressed  like  a  peasant;  he  is  a  spy; 
give  it  him!  give  it  him!"  a  hundred  voices  echoed  the  cry. 
"  What  is  it?  where  is  he?  who  is  he? — A  servant  of  the  super- 
intendent!— A  spy! — The  superintendent  disguised  as  a  peas- 
ant, and  making  his  escape! — Where  is  he?  where  is  he?  give 
it  him!  give  it  him!  " 

Renzo  became  dumb,  shrank  into  a  mere  nothing,  and  en- 
deavoured to  make  his  escape;  some  of  his  neighbours  helped 
him  to  conceal  himself,  and,  by  louder  and  different  cries,  at- 
tempted to  drown  these  adverse  and  homicidal  shouts.  But 
what  was  of  more  use  to  him  than  anything  else,  was  a  cry  of 
'*  Make  way,  make  way!"  which  was  heard  close  at  hand: 
"  Make  way!  here  is  help:  make  way;  ho,  hey!  " 

What  was  it?  It  was  a  long  ladder,  that  some  persons 
were  bringing  to  rear  against  the  house,  so  as  to  gain  an  en- 
trance through  one  of  the  windows.  But  by  great  good  for- 
tune this  means,  which  would  have  rendered  the  thing  easy, 
was  not,  in  itself,  so  easy  of  execution.  The  bearers,  who  at 
each  end,  and  here  and  there  at  intervals,  supported  it,  pushed 
about  and  impeded  by  the  crowd,  reeled  to  and  fro  like  waves; 
one,  with  his  head  between  two  steps  and  the  sides  resting  on 
his  shoulders,  groaned  beneath  the  weight,  as  under  a  galling 
yoke;  another  was  separated  from  his  burden  by  a  violent  push; 
the  abandoned  machine  bruised  heads,  shoulders,  and  arms; 
and  the  reader  must  imagine  the  complaints  and  murmurs 
of  those  who  thus  suffered.  Others,  raising  the  dead  weight 
with  their  hands,  crept  underneath  it,  and  carried  it  on  their 
backs,  crying,  "  It  is  our  turn;  let  us  go!  "  The  fatal  machine 
advanced  by  bounds  and  exchanges — now  straightforward, 
now  obliquely.  It  came,  however,  in  time  to  distract  and 
divert  the  attention  of  Renzo's  persecutors,  and  he  profited  by 
this  confusion  within  confusion;  creeping  quietly  along  at  first, 
and  then  elbowing  his  way  as  well  as  he  could,  he  withdrew 
from  the  post  where  he  found  himself  in  such  a  perilous  situa- 
tion, with  the  intention  of  making  the  best  of  his  escape  from 
the  tumult,  and  of  going,  in  real  earnest,  to  find  or  to  wait  for 
Father  Bonaventura. 

All  on  a  sudden,  a  movement,  begun  at  one  extremity,  ex- 
tended itself  throughout  the  crowd,  and  a  cry  was  echoed  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  in  chorus:  ''Ferrer!  Ferrer!"  Surprise, 
expressions  of  favour  or  contempt,  joy  and  anger,  burst  forth 
wherever  the  name  was  heard;  some  echoed  it,  some  tried  to 
drown  it;  some  affirmed,  some  denied,  some  blessed,  some 
cursed. 

"Is  Ferrer  here? — It  isn't  true,  it  isn't  true! — Yes,  yes! 


192 


MANZONI 


long  live  Ferrer ;  he  who  gives  bread  at  a  low  price ! — No,  no ! 
— He's  here,  he's  here,  in  his  carriage. — What  is  this  fellow  go- 
ing to  do?  Why  does  he  meddle  in  it?  We  don't  want  any- 
body!— Ferrer!  long  live  Ferrer!  the  friend  of  poor  people! 
he's  come  to  take  the  superintendent  to  prison. — No,  no:  we 
will  get  justice  ourselves:  back,  back! — Yes,. yes!  Ferrer!  let 
Ferrer  come!  off  with  the  superintendent  to  prison!  " 

And  everybody,  standing  on  tiptoe,  turned  toward  the  part 

wdiere  the  unexpected  new  arrival  was  announced.     But  every- 

,,  body  rising,  they  saw  neither  more  nor  less  than  if  they  had 

y  all  remained  standing  as  they  were ;  yet  so  it  was :  all  arose. 

I        In  fact,  at  the  extremity  of  the  crowd,  on  the  opposite  side 

to  where  the  soldiers  were  stationed,  Antonio  Ferrer,  the  high 

chancellor,  was  approaching  in  his  carriage;  feeling  conscious, 

probably,  that  by  his  mistakes  and  obstinacy,  he  was  the  cause, 

or,  at  any  rate  the  occasion,  of  this  outbreak,  he  now  came  to 

try  and  allay  it,  and  to  avert,  at  least,  the  most  terrible  and 

irreparable  effects:  he  came,  in  short,  to  employ  worthily  a 

popularity  unworthily  acquired. 

In  popular  tumults  there  is  always  a  certain  number  of 
men,  who,  either  from  overheated  passions,  or  from  fanatical 
persuasion,  or  from  wicked  designs,  or  from  an  execrable  love 
of  destruction,  do  all  they  can  to  push  matters  to  the  worst; 
they  propose  or  second  the  most  inhuman  advice,  and  fan  the 
flame  whenever  it  seems  to  be  sinking:  nothing  is  ever  too 
much  for  them,  and  they  wish  for  nothing  so  much  as  that  the 
tumult  should  have  neither  limits  nor  end.  But,  by  way  of 
counterpoise,  there  is  always  a  certain  number  of  very  different 
men,  who,  perhaps,  with  equal  ardour  and  equal  perseverance, 
are  aiming  at  a  contrary  effect:  some  influenced  by  friendship 
or  partiality  for  the  threatened  objects;  others,  without  further 
impulse  than  that  of  a  pious  and  spontaneous  horror  of  blood- 
shed and  atrocious  deeds.  Heaven  blesses  such.  In  each  of 
these  two  opposite  parties,  even  without  antecedent  concert, 
conformity  of  inclination  creates  an  instantaneous  agreement 
in  operation.  Those  who  make  up  the  mass,  and  ^Imost  the 
materials  of  the  tumult  besides,  are  a  mixed  body  of  men,  who, 
more  or  less,  by  infinite  gradations,  hold  to  one  or  the  other 
extreme:  partly  incensed,  partly  knavish,  a  little  inclined  to  a 
sort  of  justice,  according  to  their  idea  of  the  word,  a  little  de- 
sirous of  witnessing  some  grand  act  of  villainy;  prone  to  fe- 
rocity or  compassion,  to  adoration  or  execration,  according  as 
opportunities  present  themselves  of  indulging  to  the  full  one 
or  other  of  these  sentiments;  craving  every  moment  to  know, 
to  believe,  some  gross  absurdity  or  improbability,  and  longing 


THE    BETROTHED  I93 

to  shout,  applaud,  or  revile  in  somebody's  train.  "  Long  live," 
and  ''  Down  with,"  are  the  words  most  readily  uttered;  and  he 
who  has  succeeded  in  persuading  them  that  such  an  one  does 
not  deserve  to  be  quartered,  has  need  of  very  few  words  to 
convince  them  that  he  deserves  to  be  carried  in  triumph: 
actors,  spectators,  instruments,  obstacles,  whichever  way  the 
wind  blows;  ready  even  to  be  silent,  when  there  is  no  longer 
any  one  to  give  them  the  word;  to  desist,  when  instigators 
fail;  to  disperse,  when  many  concordant  and  uncontradicted 
voices  have  pronounced,  "  Let  us  go;  "  and  to  return  to  their 
own  homes,  demanding  of  each  other — What  has  happened? 
Since,  however,  this  body  has,  hence,  the  greatest  power,  nay, 
is,  in  fact,  the  power  itself;  so,  each  of  the  two  active  parties 
uses  every  endeavour  to  bring  it  to  its  own  side,  to  engross  its 
services:  they  are,  as  it  were,  two  adverse  spirits,  struggling 
which  shall  get  possession  of,  and  animate,  this  huge  body. 
It  depends  upon  which  side  can  diffuse  a  cry  the  most  apt  to 
excite  the  passions,  and  direct  their  motions  in  favour  of  its 
own  schemes;  can  most  seasonably  find  information  which 
will  arouse  or  allay  their  indignation,  and  excite  either  their 
terror  or  their  hopes;  and  can  give  the  word,  which,  repeated 
more  and  more  vehemently,  wall  at  once  express,  attest,  and 
create  the  vote  of  the  majority  in  favour  of  one  or  the  other 
party. 

All  these  remarks  are  intended  as  an  introduction  to  the 
information  that,  in  the  struggle  of  the  two  parties  who  were 
contending  for  the  suffrages  of  the  populace  crowded  around 
the  house  of  the  superintendent,  the  appearance  of  Antonio 
Ferrer  instantly  gave  a  great  advantage  to  the  more  moderate 
side,  which  had  evidently  been  kept  in  awe,  and,  had  the  suc- 
cour been  a  little  longer  delayed,  would  have  had  neither  power 
nor  scope  for  combat.  This  person  was  acceptable  to  the  mul- 
titude on  account  of  the  tariff  of  his  own  appointment,  which 
had  been  so  favourable  to  purchasers,  and  also  for  his  heroic 
resistance  to  every  argument  on  the  contrary  side.  Minds  al- 
ready thus  biassed  were  now  more  than  ever  captivated  by  the 
bold  confidence  of  the  old  man,  who,  without  guards  or  retinue, 
ventured  thus  to  seek  and  confront  an  angry  and  ungoverned 
multitude.  The  announcement  also  that  he  came  to  take  the 
superintendent  prisoner  produced  a  wonderful  effect:  so  that 
the  fury  entertained  toward  the  unfortunate  man,  which  would 
have  been  rendered  more  violent,  whoever  had  come  to  oppose 
it  without  making  any  concessions,  was  now,  with  this  promise 
of  satisfaction,  and,  to  use  a  Milanese  expression,  with  this 
bone  in  their  mouth,  a  little  allayed,  and  made  way  for  other 
13 


194 


MANZONI 


and  far  different  sentiments  which  pervaded  the  minds  of  the 
greater  part  of  the  crowd. 

The  favourers  of  peace,  having  recovered  their  breath, 
seconded  Ferrer  in  a  hundred  ways:  those  who  were  next  to 
him,  by  exciting  and  re-exciting  the  cries  of  general  applause 
by  their  own,  and  endeavouring  at  the  same  time  to  repulse 
the  people  so  as  to  make  a  clear  passage  for  the  carriage;  the 
others,  by  applauding,  repeating,  and  spreading  his  words,  or 
what  appeared  to  them  the  best  he  could  utter,  by  silencing  the 
furious  and  obstinate,  and  turning  against  them  the  new  pas- 
sions of  the  fickle  assembly.  ''  Who  is  there  that  won't  say, 
'  Long  live  Ferrier?  '  Don't  you  wish  bread  to  be  sold  cheap, 
eh?  They  are  all  rascals  who  don't  wish  for  justice  like  Chris- 
tians: they  want  to  make  as  much  noise  as  they  can,  to  let  the 
vicar  escape.  To  prison  with  the  vicar!  Long  live  Ferrer! 
Make  room  for  Ferrer!  "  As  those  who  talked  in  this  strain 
continued  to  increase,  the  courage  of  the  opposite  party  rapid- 
ly cooled;  so  that  the  former  proceeded  from  reprimands  so 
far  as  to  lay  hands  upon  the  demolishers,  to  repulse  them,  and 
even  to  snatch  the  weapons  from  their  grasp.  These  grum- 
bled, threatened,  and  endeavoured  to  regain  their  implements; 
but  the  cause  of  blood  had  given  way,  and  the  predominating 
cries  were — ''Prison!  Justice!  Ferrer!"  After  a  little  strug- 
gle, they  were  driven  back:  the  others  possessed  themselves 
of  the  door,  both  to  defend  it  from  further  assaults,  and  to  se- 
cure access  for  Ferrer;  and  some  of  them,  calling  to  those 
within  (apertures  for  such  a  purpose  were  not  wanting)  in- 
formed them  of  the  assistance  that  had  arrived  and  bid  them 
get  the  superintendent  ready,  "  to  go  directly  ....  to  prison, 
ehem,  do  you  hear!  " 

"  Is  this  the  Ferrer  who  helps  to  make  out  proclama- 
tions?" demanded  our  friend,  Renzo,  of  a  new  neighbour,  re- 
membering the  "  Vidit  Ferrer  "  that  the  doctor  had  pointed 
out  to  him  at  the  bottom  of  one  of  these  edicts,  and  which  he 
had  resounded  so  perseveringly  in  his  ears. 

"  Yes;  the  high  chancellor,"  was  the  reply. 

"  He  is  a  worthy  man,  isn't  he?  " 

"  More  than  that!  it  is  he  who  had  fixed  bread  at  a  low 
price;  and  they  wouldn't  have  it  so;  and  now  he  is  come  to 
take  the  superintendent  prisoner,  who  has  not  dealt  justice 
to  us." 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Renzo  was  Instantly  for  Fer- 
rer. He  wished  to  get  a  sight  of  him  directly,  but  this  was 
no  easy  matter;  yet,  with  the  help  of  sundry  breastings  and 
elbowings,  like  a  true  Alpine,  he  succeeded  in  forcing  a  pas- 


THE   BETROTHED 


195 


sage  and  reaching  the  foremost  ranks  next  to  the  side  of  the 
carriage. 

The  vehicle  had  proceeded  a  Httle  way  into  the  crowd,  and 
was  at  this  moment  at  a  standstill,  by  one  of  those  inevitable 
impediments  so  frequent  in  a  journey  of  this  sort.  The  aged 
Ferrer  presented  himself  now  at  one  window  of  the  carriage, 
now  at  another,  with  a  countenance  full  of  humility,  affability, 
and  benevolence — a  countenance  which  he  had  always  re- 
served, perchance  he  should  ever  have  an  interview  with  Don 
Filippo  IV;  but  he  was  compelled  to  display  it  also  on  this 
occasion.  He  talked  too;  but  the  noise  and  murmur  of  so 
many  voices,  and  the  Long  lives  which  were  addressed  to  him, 
allowed  only  few  of  his  words  to  be  heard.  He  therefore  had 
recourse  to  gestures,  now  laying  his  fingers  on  his  lips  to  re- 
ceive a  kiss,  which  quickly  extending  his  hands,  he  dis- 
tributed right  and  left,  as  an  acknowledgment  of  thanks  for 
these  public  demonstrations  of  kindness;  now  spreading  them 
and  waving  them  slowly  outside  the  windows  to  beg  a  little 
room;  now  politely  lowering  them  to  request  a  moment's  si- 
lence. When  he  had  partly  succeeded  in  obtaining  it,  the  near- 
est to  the  carriage  heard  and  repeated  his  words:  "  Bread, 
abundance:  I  come  to  give  you  justice:  a  little  room,  if  you 
please."  Then  overcome,  and,  as  it  were,  smothered  with  the 
buzzing  of  so  many  voices,  the  sight  of  so  many  crowded  faces, 
and  the  consciousness  of  so  many  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  he 
drew  back  for  a  moment,  puffed  out  his  cheeks,  sent  forth  a 
long-drawn  breath,  and  said  to  himself,  "  Por  mi  vida,  que  de 
gente!" 

"  Long  live  Ferrer!  Don't  be  afraid.  You  are  a  worthy 
man.     Bread,  bread!  " 

"Yes:  bread,  bread,"  replied  Ferrer;  "abundance;  I 
promise  you,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart.  "  A  little 
room,"  added  he,  in  his  loudest  voice:  "  I  am  coming  to  take 
him  to  prison,  and  give  him  just  punishment:  "  continuing,  in 
an  undertone,  "  si  esta  culpable."  Then  bending  forward  to- 
ward the  coachman,  he  said  hastily,  "  Adelante,  Pedro,  si 
puedes." 

The  driver  himself  also  smiled  with  gracious  condescension 
on  the  multitudes,  as  if  he  were  some  great  personage;  and, 
with  ineffable  politeness,  waved  his  whip  slowly  to  the  right 
and  left,  to  beg  his  incommodious  neighbours  to  restrain  them- 
selves and  retire  a  little  on  either  side.  "  Be  good  enough, 
gentlemen,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  to  make  a  little  room,  a  very 
little;  just  enough  to  let  us  pass." 

The  most  active  and  benevolent  now  exerted  themselves 


196 


MANZONI 


to  make  the  passage  so  courteously  requested;  some  before 
the  horses  made  the  people  retire  by  civil  words,  by  putting 
their  hands  on  their  breasts,  and  by  sundry  gentle  pushes. 
*'  There,  there,  a  little  room,  gentlemen."  Others  pursued 
the  same  plan  at  the  sides  of  the  carriage,  so  that  it  might 
proceed  without  crushing  toes,  or  infringing  upon  mustachios ; 
for,  besides  injury  to  others,  these  accidents  would  expose 
the  reputation  of  Antonio  Ferrer  to  great  risk. 

After  having  stood  a  few  moments  admiring  the  behaviour 
of  the  old  man,  who,  though  agitated  by  perplexity  and  over- 
come with  fatigue,  was  yet  animated  with  solicitude,  and 
adorned,  so  to  say,  with  the  hope  of  rescuing  a  fellow-crea- 
ture from  mortal  anguish,  Renzo  put  aside  every  thought  of 
going  away,  and  resolved  to  lend  a  hand  to  Ferrer,  and  not  to 
leave  him  until  he  had  obtained  his  purpose.  No  sooner  said 
than  done;  he  joined  with  the  rest  in  endeavouring  to  clear  a 
passage,  and  certainly  was  not  among  the  least  efficient.  A 
space  was  cleared:  "  Now  come  forward,"  said  more  than  one, 
to  the  coachman,  retiring  or  going  before  to  make  room 
further  on.  ''  Adelante,  presto,  con  juicio,"  said  his  master, 
and  the  carriage  moved  on.  Ferrer,  in  the  midst  of  salutations 
which  he  lavished  at  random  on  the  multitude,  returned  many 
particular  acknowledgments  with  a  smile  of  marked  notice,  to 
those  whom  he  saw  interesting  themselves  for  him;  and  of 
these  smiles  more  than  one  fell  to  Renzo's  share,  who  in- 
deed merited  them,  and  rendered  more  assistance  to  the  high 
chancellor  that  day  than  the  bravest  of  his  secretaries  could 
have  done.  The  young  mountaineer,  delighted  w^ith  these 
marks  of  distinction,  almost  fancied  he  had  made  acquaintance 
with  Antonio  Ferrer. 

The  carriage,  once  more  on  its  way,  continued  to  advance, 
more  or  less  slowly,  and  not  without  some  further  trifling  de- 
lays. The  distance  to  be  traversed  was  not  perhaps  above  a 
stone's  throw;  but  with  respect  to  the  time  it  occupied,  it 
might  have  appeared  a  little  journey  even  to  one  who  was  not 
in  such  urgent  haste  as  Ferrer.  The  crowds  moved  onward, 
before,  behind,  and  on  each  side  of  the  carriage,  like  the  mighty 
billows  round  a  vessel  advancing  through  the  midst  of  a  storm. 
The  noise  was  more  shrill,  more  discordant,  more  stunning, 
than  the  whistling  and  howling  of  a  storm  itself.  Ferrer, 
looking  out  first  at  one  side  and  then  at  the  other,  beckoning 
and  making  all  sorts  of  gestures  to  the  people,  endeavoured  to 
catch  something  to  which  he  might  accommodate  his  replies; 
he  tried  as  well  as  he  could  to  hold  a  little  dialogue  with  this 
crowd  of  friends;  but  it  was  a  difficult  task,  the  most  difficult, 


THE   BETROTHED 


197 


perhaps,  that  he  had  yet  met  with  during  so  many  years  of  his 
high  chancellorship.  From  time  to  time,  however,  a  single 
word,  or  occasionally  some  broken  sentence,  repeated  by  a 
group  in  his  passage,  made  itself  heard,  as  me  report  of  a  large 
squib  is  heard  above  the  continued  cracking  and  whizzing  of 
a  display  of  fire-works.  Now  endeavouring  to  give  a  satis- 
factory answer  to  these  cries,  now  loudly  ejaculating  the  words 
that  he  knew  would  be  most  acceptable,  or  that  some  instant 
necessity  seemed  to  require,  he,  too,  continued  to  talk  the 
whole  way.  ''  Yes,  gentlemen;  bread,  abundance — I  will  con- 
duct him  to  prison:  he  shall  be  punished — si  esta  culpable. 
Yes,  yes :  I  will  command :  bread  at  a  low  price.  A3i  es  .  .  .  . 
So  it  is,  I  mean  to  say:  the  King  our  master  would  not  wish 
such  faithful  subjects  to  suffer  from  hunger.  Ox!  ox!  guar- 
daos:  take  care  we  don't  hurt  you,  gentlemen.  Pedro,  ade- 
lante,  con  juicio.  Plenty,  plenty.  A  little  room,  for  pity's 
sake.  Bread,  bread.  To  prison,  to  prison.  What?"  then 
demanded  he  of  one  who  had  thrust  half  his  body  through  the 
window  to  shout  in  his  ear  some  advice  or  petition  or  applause, 
or  whatever  it  might  be.  But  he,  without  having  time  to  hear 
the  ''  what?  "  was  forcibly  pulled  back  by  one  who  saw  him  on 
the  point  of  being  run  over  by  the  wheels.  With  such  speeches 
and  replies,  among  incessant  acclamations,  and  some  few 
grumbles  of  opposition,  which  were  distinguishable  here  and 
there,  but  were  quickly  silenced,  Ferrer  at  last  reached  the 
house,  principally  by  the  aid  of  these  good  auxiliaries. 

The  rest,  who,  as  we  have  before  related,  were  already  here 
with  the  same  good  intentions,  had  in  the  mean  while  laboured 
to  make  and  maintain  a  clear  space.  They  begged,  exhorted, 
threatened;  and  stamping,  trampling,  and  pacing  up  and 
down,  with  that  increased  ardour  and  renewed  strength  which 
the  near  approach  of  a  desired  result  usually  excites,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  dividing  the  crowd  into  two,  and  then  in  repressing 
the  two  parties,  so  that,  when  the  carriage  stopped  before  the 
door,  there  was  left  between  it  and  the  house  a  small  empty 
space.  Renzo,  who,  by  acting  a  little  both  as  a  scout  and 
guide,  had  arrived  with  the  carriage,  managed  to  place  himself 
in  one  of  the  two  frontiers  of  worthy  people,  who  served  at 
once  both  as  wings  to  the  carriage  and  as  a  rampart  to  the  too 
eager  crowd  of  gazing  bystanders.  And  helping  to  restrain 
one  of  these  with  his  own  powerful  shoulders,  he  was  also  con- 
veniently placed  for  seeing. 

Ferrer  drew  a  long  deep  breath  on  perceiving  this  small 
open  space,  and  the  door  still  shut.  "  Shut "  here  means  not 
open;  for,  as  to  the  rest,  the  hinges  were  almost  wrenched  out 


198 


MANZONI 


of  the  pillars;  the  door-posts  shivered  to  pieces,  crushed, 
forced,  and  dissevered;  and  through  a  large  hole  in  the  door 
might  be  seen  a  piece  of  a  chain,  twisted,  bent,  and  almost 
broken  in  two,  which,  if  we  may  say  so,  still  held  them  to- 
gether. Some  kind-hearted  person  had  placed  himself  at  this 
opening  to  call  to  those  within;  another  ran  to  let  down  the 
steps  of  the  carriage:  the  old  man  rose,  put  out  his  head,  and 
laying  his  right  hand  on  the  arm  of  this  worthy  assistant, 
came  out  and  stood  on  the  top  step. 

The  crowd  on  each  side  stretched  themselves  up  to  see  him: 
a  thousand  faces,  a  thousand  beards  pressed  forward;  and  the 
general  curiosity  and  attention  produced  a  moment  of  general 
silence.  Ferrer,  standing  for  that  moment  on  the  step,  cast  a 
glance  around,  saluted  the  people  with  a  bow,  as  if  from  a  ros- 
trum, and  laying  his  left  hand  on  his  heart,  cried,  "  Bread  and 
justice;"  then  bold,  upright,  and  in  his  robes,  he  descended 
amid  acclamations  which  rent  the  skies. 

Those  within  had,  in  the  mean  while,  opened  the  door,  or, 
to  speak  more  correctly,  had  finished  the  work  of  wresting  out 
the  chain,  together  with  the  already  more  than  half-loosened 
staples.  They  made  an  opening,  to  admit  so  ardently  desired 
a  guest,  taking,  however,  great  care  to  limit  the  aperture  to  a 
space  that  his  person  would  occupy.  "  Quick,  quick,"  said 
he;  "  open  it  wide,  and  let  me  in:  and  you,  like  brave  fellows, 
keep  back  the  people;  don't  let  them  follow  me,  for  Heaven's 
sake!  Make  ready  a  passage,  for  by  and  by  ....  Eh!  eh! 
gentlemen,  one  moment,"  said  he  to  those  within:  "softly 
with  this  door,  let  me  pass :  oh !  my  ribs :  take  care  of  my  ribs. 
Shut  it  now :  no !  eh !  my  gown,  my  gown !  "  It  would  have 
remained  caught  in  the  door,  if  Ferrer  had  not  dexterously 
withdrawn  the  train,  which  disappeared  from  the  outside  like 
the  tail  of  a  snake  that  slips  into  a  hiding-place  when  pursued. 

The  door  pushed  to,  and  closed  as  it  best  could  be,  was  then 
propped  up  with  bars  within.  Outside,  those  who  constituted 
themselves  Ferrer's  body-guard  laboured  with  shoulders,  arms, 
and  cries,  to  keep  the  space  clear,  praying  from  the  bottom  of 
their  hearts  that,  he  would  be  expeditious. 

"  Be  quick,  be  quick,"  said  he,  also,  as  he  stood  within  the 
portico,  to  the  servants  who  had  gathered  round  him,  and 
who,  almost  out  of  breath,  were  exclaiming:  "  Blessings  on 
you!  ah,  your  Excellency!  oh,  your  Excellency!  uh,  your 
Excellency!  " 

"Quick,   quick,"   repeated   Ferrer;    "where   is   this   poor 


man 


? 


The  superintendent  came  down-stairs,  half  dragged  along. 


THE   BETROTHED 


199 


and  half  carried  by  his  servants,  as  white  as  a  sheet.  When  he 
saw  his  kind  helper,  he  once  more  breathed  freely;  his  pulse 
again  beat,  a  little  life  returned  into  his  limbs  and  a  little  col- 
our into  his  cheeks:  he  hastened  toward  Ferrer,  saying:  "  I 
am  in  the  hands  of  God  and  your  Excellency.  But  how  shall 
we  get  out  of  this  house?  It  is  surrounded  by  the  mob,  who 
desire  my  death." 

"  Venga  con  migo  usted,  and  be  of  good  courage :  my 
carriage  is  outside;  quick,  quick!  "  And  taking  his  hand,  he 
led  him  toward  the  door,  doing  his  best  to  encourage  him: 
but  in  his  heart  thinking,  "  Aqui^  esta  el  busillis!  Dios  nos 
valga!" 

The  door  opened ;  Ferrer  led  the  way,  followed  by  his  com- 
panion, who,  creeping  along,  clung  to  the  toga  of  his  deliverer, 
like  a  little  child  to  its  mother's  gown.  Those  who  had  kept 
the  space  clear,  now  raised  their  hands  and  hats  so  as  to  form 
a  kind  of  net  or  cloud  to  screen  the  superintendent  from  the 
perilous  gaze  of  the  populace,  and  allow  him  to  enter  the  car- 
riage, where  he  concealed  himself,  by  crouching  in  a  corner. 
Ferrer  then  got  in,  and  the  door  was  shut.  The  people  knev/ 
or  guessed  what  had  happened,  and  sent  forth  a  confused  shout 
of  applauses  and  imprecations. 

It  may  seem  that  the  most  difficult  and  hazardous  part  of 
the  journey  still  remained  to  be  performed;  but  the  public  de- 
sire of  letting  the  superintendent  be  carried  to  prison  was 
sufficiently  evident;  and  during  the  stay  of  the  chancellor  in 
the  house,  many  of  those  who  had  facilitated  his  arrival  had  so 
busied  themselves  in  preparing  and  maintaining  a  passage 
through  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  that  on  its  return  the  carriage 
could  proceed  at  a  quicker  pace,  and  without  further  delays. 
As  fast  as  it  advanced,  the  two  crowds,  repelled  on  both  sides, 
fell  back  and  mingled  again  behind  it. 

As  soon  as  Ferrer  had  seated  himself,  he  bent  down,  and 
advised  the  vicar  to  keep  himself  well  concealed  in  the  corner, 
and  not  show  himself  for  Heaven's  sake;  but  there  was  no  ne- 
cessity for  this  warning.  He,  on  the  contrary,  was  obliged  to 
display  himself  at  the  window,  to  attract  and  engage  the  at- 
tention of  the  multitude:  and  through  the  whole  course  of  this 
drive  he  was  occupied,  as  before,  in  making,  to  his  change- 
able audience,  the  most  lengthened  and  most  unconnected 
harangue  that  ever  was  uttered;  only  interrupting  it  occasion- 
ally with  some  Spanish  word  or  two,  which  he  turned  to  whis- 
per hastily  in  the  ear  of  his  squatting  companion.  ''  Yes,  gen- 
tlemen, bread  and  justice.  To  the  castle,  to  prison,  under  my 
guard.     Thank  you,  thank  you;  a  thousand  thanks.     No,  no; 


200  MANZONI 

he  shall  not  escape!  Por  ablandarlos.  It  is  too  just;  we  will 
examine,  we  will  see.  I  also  wish  you  well,  gentlemen.  A 
severe  punishment.  Esto  lo  digo  por  su  bien.  A  just  tariff, 
a  fair  limit,  and  punishment  to  those  who  would  starve  you. 
Stand  aside,  I  beg  of  you. — Yes,  yes,  I  am  an  honest  man,  a 
friend  of  the  people.  He  shall  be  punished.  It  is  true,  he  is 
a  rogue,  a  rascal.  Perdone  usted!  It  will  go  ill  with  him,  it 
will  go  ill  with  him  ....  Si  esta  culpable.  Yes,  yes;  we  will 
make  the  bakers  plough  straightforward.  Long  live  the  King, 
and  the  good  Milanese,  his  most  faithful  subjects!  It  is  bad, 
very  bad.     Animo;  estamos  ya  qSas^i'  afuera." 

They  had,  in  fact,  traversed  the  thickest  part  of  the  crowd, 
and  were  now  just  on  the  point  of  issuing  into  the  open  street. 
Here  Ferrer,  as  he  began  to  give  his  lungs  a  little  rest,  met  his 
tardy  allies,  those  Spanish  soldiers,  who,  toward  the  end,  had 
not  been  quite  useless,  since,  supported  and  directed  by  some 
citizen,  they  had  assisted  to  disperse  a  few  of  the  mob  in  quiet, 
and  to  keep  open  a  passage  for  the  final  exit.  On  the  arrival 
of  the  carriage,  they  made  way  and  presented  arms  to  the  high 
chancellor,  who  returned  the  acknowledgment  by  a  bow  to 
the  right  and  left ;  and  to  the  officer  who  approached  nearer  to 
salute  him,  he  said,  accompanying  the  words  with  a  wave  of 
his  right  hand,  "  Beso  a  usted  las  manos;  "  which  the  officer 
took  for  what  it  really  meant — You  have  given  me  fine  assist- 
ance! In  reply,  he  made  another  low  bow,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  It  would  have  been  appropriate  enough  to  add, 
"  Cedant  arma  togse,"  but  Ferrer  was  not  at  that  moment  in  a 
humour  for  quotations;  and  had  he  been,  his  words  would 
have  been  wasted  on  the  winds,  for  the  officer  did  not  under- 
stand Latin. 

Pedro  regained  his  ancient  spirit  in  passing  between  these 
two  files  of  puppets  and  these  muskets  so  respectfully  elevated. 
Having  recovered  from  his  consternation,  he  remembered  who 
he  was,  and  whom  he  was  driving;  and  shouting  "  Obey! 
obey !  "  without  the  addition  of  other  complimentary  speeches 
to  the  mob,  now  sufficiently  reduced  in  number  to  allow  of 
his  venturing  on  such  treatment,  he  whipped  on  his  horses,  and 
took  the  road  toward  the  castle. 

"  Levantese,  levantese;  estamos  afuera,"  said  Ferrer  to 
the  superintendent,  who,  reassured  by  the  cessation  of  the 
cries,  by  the  rapid  motion  of  the  carriage,  and  by  these  words, 
uncovered  and  stretched  himself,  rose,  and  recovering  himself 
a  little,  began  to  overwhelm  his  liberator  with  thanks.  Ferrer, 
after  having  condoled  with  him  on  his  perilous  situation,  and 
congratulated  him  on  his  safety,  exclaimed,  running  the  palm 


THE   BETROTHED  201 

of  his  hand  over  his  bald  pate,  "  Ah,  que  dira  de  estos  su  Exce- 
lencia,  who  is  already  beside  himself,  for  this  cursed  Casalc, 
that  won't  surrender?  Que  dira  el  Conde  Duque,  who  starts 
with  fear  if  a  leaf  makes  more  noise  than  usual?  Que  dira  el 
Rey  nuestro  senor,  who  will  be  sure  to  hear  something  of  so 
great  a  tumult?     And  when  will  it  be  over?     Dios  lo  sabe." 

"  Ah !  as  to  myself,  I  will  meddle  no  more  in  the  business," 
said  the  superintendent;  ''  I  wash  my  hands  of  it;  I  resign  my 
office  into  your  Excellency's  hands,  and  will  go  and  live  in  a 
cave,  or  on  a  mountain,  like  a  hermit,  far,  far  away  from  this 
inhuman  rabble." 

''  Usted  will  do  what  is  best  por  el  servicio  de  su  Ma- 
gestad,"  gravely  replied  the  chancellor. 

"  His  Majesty  does  not  desire  my  death,"  answered  the 
superintendent.  "  In  a  cave,  in  a  cave,  far  from  these  people." 
What  followed  afterward  upon  this  proposal  is  not  recorded 
by  our  author,  who,  after  accompanying  the  poor  man  to  the 
castle,  makes  no  further  mention  of  his  proceedings. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE  crowd  that  was  left  behind  began  to  disperse,  and 
to  branch  off  to  the  right  and  left  along  the  different 
streets.  One  went  home  to  attend  to  his  business;  an- 
other departed  that  he  might  breathe  the  fresh  air  in  a 
little  liberty,  after  so  many  hours  of  crowded  confinement; 
w^hile  a  third  set  off  in  search  of  acquaintances,  wath  whom  he 
might  have  a  little  chat  about  the  doings  of  the  day.  The  same 
dispersion  was  going  on  at  the  other  end  of  the  street,  where 
the  crowd  was  sufficiently  thinned  to  allow  the  troop  of  Span- 
iards to  advance  and  approach  the  superintendent's  house, 
without  having  to  fight  their  way.  Around  this,  the  dregs,  so 
to  say,  of  the  insurgents  were  still  congregated — a  handful  of 
rascals  who,  discontented  with  so  quiet  and  imperfect  a  ter- 
mination to  such  great  preparations,  grumbled,  cursed,  and 
consulted,  to  encourage  themselves  in  seeking  if  something 
further  might  not  be  undertaken;  and,  by  way  of  experiment, 
began  beating  and  pounding  at  the  unfortunate  door,  which 
had  been  again  barred  and  propped  up  within.  On  the  arrival 
of  the  troop,  these,  without  previous  consultation,  but  with  a 
unanimous  resolution,  moved  off,  and  departed  by  the  opposite 
side,  leaving  the  post  free  to  the  soldiers,  who  took  possession 
of  it,  and  encamped  as  a  guard  to  the  house  and  street.  But 
the  neighbouring  streets  and  squares  were  still  full  of  scattered 
groups :  where  two  or  three  were  standing,  three,  four,  twenty 
others  would  stop;  some  w^ould  depart,  others  arrive:  it  w^as 
like  those  little  straggling  clouds  that  sometimes  remain  scat- 
tered and  shifting  over  the  azure  sky  after  a  storm,  and  make 
one  say,  on  looking  upward,  ''  The  weather  is  not  settled  yet." 
There  was  heard  a  confused  and  varying  sound  of  voices:  one 
was  relating  with  much  energy  the  particular  incidents  he  had 
witnessed;  another  recounted  what  he  himself  had  done;  an- 
other congratulated  his  neighbours  on  this  peaceable  termina- 
tion, applauded  Ferrer,  and  prognosticated  dire  evils  about  to 
fall  on  the  superintendent;  others  laughed  at  the  idea,  and  as- 
serted that  no  harm  would  be  done  him,  because  a  wolf  does 

202 


THE   BETROTHED  203 

not  prey  upon  a  wolf;  while  others  more  angrily  murmured 
because^  things  had  not  been  managed  properly — said  that  it 
was  all  a  hoax,  and  that  they  were  fools  to  have  made  such  a 
hubbub,  only  to  allow  themselves,  after  all,  to  be  cozened  in 
this  manner. 

Meanwhile,  the  sun  had  set,  and  twilight  spread  its  uniform 
sombreness  over  all  objects.  Many,  wearied  with  the  ex- 
ertions of  the  day,  and  tired  of  gossiping  in  the  dark,  returned 
to  their  respective  homes.  Our  youth,  after  having  assisted 
the  progress  of  the  carriage  so  long  as  there  was  need  of  assist- 
ance, and  having  followed  it  even  between  the  two  files  of  sol- 
diers, as  in  triumph,  was  satisfied  when  he  saw  it  rolling  along, 
uninterruptedly,  out  of  danger;  and  accompanying  the  crowd 
a  little  way,  he  soon  deserted  it  by  the  first  outlet,  that  he 
might  breathe  a  little  fresh  air  in  quiet.  After  taking  a  few 
steps  at  large,  in  the  midst  of  much  agitation  from  so  many 
new  scenes,  so  many  passions,  and  so  many  recent  and  con- 
fused remembrances,  he  began  to  feel  his  need  both  of  food 
and  rest;  and  kept  looking  up  from  side  to  side,  in  hopes  of 
seeing  a  sign  of  some  inn,  since  it  was  too  late  to  go  to  the  con- 
vent. As  he  thus  proceeded,  gazing  upward,  he  suddenly  lit 
upon  a  group  of  gossips;  and  stopping  to  listen,  he  heard 
them,  as  they  talked,  making  conjectures,  proposals,  and  de- 
signs for  the  morrow.  After  listening  a  moment  or  two,  he 
could  not  resist  putting  in  his  word,  thinking  that  he  who  had 
done  so  much  might,  without  presumption,  join  a  little  in  the 
conversation.  Persuaded,  from  what  he  had  seen  during  the 
day,  that  to  accomplish  anything,  it  was  only  necessary  to  sug- 
gest it  to  the  populace,  "  My  good  sirs,"  cried  he,  by  way  of 
exordium,  ''  may  I,  too,  give  my  poor  opinion?  My  poor  opin- 
ion is  this:  that  there  are  other  iniquities  besides  this  of  bread. 
Now  we've  seen  plain  enough  to-day  that  we  can  get  justice 
by  making  ourselves  felt.  Then  let  us  proceed  until  all  these 
grievances  are  cured,  that  the  world  may  move  forward  in  a 
little  more  Christian  fashion.  Isn't  it  true,  gentlemen,  that 
there's  a  set  of  tyrants  who  set  at  nought  the  Ten  Command- 
ments, and  search  out  poor  people  (who  don't  trouble  their 
heads  about  them),  just  to  do  them  every  mischief  they  can; 
and  yet  they're  always  in  the  right?  Nay,  when  they've  been 
acting  the  rascal  more  than  usual,  then  hold  their  heads  higher 
than  at  other  times?  Yes,  and  even  Milan  has  its  share  of 
them." 

"  Too  many,"  said  a  voice. 

"So  I  say,"  rejoined  Renzo:  ''the  accounts  of  them  have 
already  reached  our  ears.     And  besides,  the  thing  speaks  for 


204 


MANZONI 


itself.  Let  us  suppose,  for  instance,  that  one  of  those  I  am 
talking  about  should  have  one  foot  outside  and  one  in  Milan: 
if  he's  a  devil  there,  he  won't  be  an  angel  here,  I  fancy.  Yet 
just  tell  me,  sirs,  whether  you've  ever  seen  one  of  these  men 
behind  the  grating!  And  the  worst  of  it  is  (and  this  I  can 
affirm  with  certainty),  there  are  proclamations  in  plenty  pub- 
lished, to  punish  them;  and  those  not  proclamations  without 
meaning,  but  well  drawn  out;  you  can't  find  anything  better 
done:  there  are  all  sorts  of  villainies  clearly  mentioned,  exactly 
as  they  happen,  and  to  each  one  its  proper  punishment.  It 
says,  '  Whoever  it  may  be,  ignoble  or  plebeians,'  and  what 
not  besides.  Now,  just  go  and  ask  doctors,  scribes,  and  Phari- 
sees, to  see  justice  done  to  you,  as  the  proclamation  warrants, 
and  they  will  give  you  as  much  ear  as  the  Pope  does  to  vaga- 
bonds: it's  enough  to  make  any  honest  fellow  turn  desperate. 
It  is  plain  enough,  then,  that  the  King,  and  those  who  com- 
mand under  him,  are  desirous  that  knaves  should  be  duly 
punished;  but  nothing  is  done  because  there  is  some  league 
between  them.  We,  therefore,  ought  to  break  it;  we  should 
go  to-morrow  morning  to  Ferrer,  who  is  a  v/orthy  man,  and  a 
tractable  Signor;  we  saw  to-day  how  glad  he  was  to  be 
among  the  poor  people,  and  how  he  tried  to  hear  what  was 
said  to  him,  and  answered  with  such  condescension.  We 
should  go  to  Ferrer,  and  tell  him  how  things  stand;  and  I,  for 
my  part,  can  tell  him  some  fine  doings ;  for  I  saw  with  my  own 
eyes  a  proclamation  with  ever  so  many  arms  at  the  top,  which 
had  been  made  by  three  of  the  rulers,  for  there  was  the  name 
of  each  of  them  printed  plain  below,  and  one  of  these  names 
was  Ferrer,  seen  by  me  with  my  own  eyes :  now,  this  edict  ex- 
actly suited  my  case;  and  a  doctor,  to  whom  I  applied  for  jus- 
tice, according  to  the  intention  of  these  three  gentlemen, 
among  whom  was  Ferrer  himself,  this  Signor  Doctor,  who  had 
himself  shown  me  the  proclamation,  and  a  fine  one  it  is,  aha! 
thought  that  I  was  talking  to  him  like  a  madman!  I'm  sure 
that  when  this  worthy  old  fellow  hears  some  of  these  fine  do- 
ings, for  he  can  not  know  all,  particularly  those  in  the  country, 
he  won't  be  willing  to  let  the  world  go  on  this  way,  but  will 
find  some  remedy  for  it.  And  besides,  they  who  make  the 
proclamations  ought  to  wish  that  they  should  be  obeyed;  for 
it  is  an  insult  to  count  as  nothing  an  edict  with  their  name  fixed 
to  it.  And  if  the  powerful  ones  won't  lower  their  heads,  and 
will  still  play  the  fool,  we  are  ready  to  make  them,  as  we've 
done  to-day.  I  don't  say  that  he  should  go  about  in  his  car- 
riage, to  carry  off  every  powerful  and  everbearing  rascal:  eh, 
eh!  it  would  require  Noah's  ark  for  that.     But  he  ought  to 


THE   BETROTHED  20$ 

command  all  those  whose  business  it  is,  not  only  in  Milan, 
but  everywhere,  to  do  things  as  the  proclamations  require; 
and  draw  up  an  indictment  against  all  those  who  have  com- 
mitted these  iniquities;  and  where  it  says,  prison — to  prison; 
where  it  says,  galleys — to  the  galleys;  and  bid  the  Podesta  do 
his  duty;  if  he  won't,  send  him  about  his  business,  and  put  a 
better  man  in  his  place;  and  then  besides,  as  I  said,  we  should 
be  ready  to  lend  a  hand.  And  he  ought  to  order  the  lawyers 
to  listen  to  the  poor,  and  to  talk  reasonably.  Don't  I  say  right, 
my  good  sirs?  " 

Renzo  had  talked  so  earnestly,  that  from  the  beginning  a 
great  part  of  the  assemblage  had  stopped  all  other  conversa- 
tion, and  had  turned  to  listen  to  him;  and,  up  to  a  certain 
point,  all  had  continued  his  auditors.  A  confused  clamour  of 
applause,  of  ''Bravo;  certainly,  he  is  right;  it  is  too  true!" 
followed  his  harangue.  Critics,  however,  were  not  wanting. 
"  Oh,  yes,"  said  one,  ''listen  to  a  mountaineer:  they  are  all 
advocates;"  and  he  went  away.  "Now,"  muttered  another, 
"every  ragamuffin  must  put  in  his  word;  and  what  with 
having  too  many  irons  in  the  fire,  we  shan't  have  bread  sold 
cheap,  which  is  what  we've  made  this  stir  for."  Renzo,  how- 
ever, heard  nothing  but  compliments,  one  taking  him  by  this 
hand,  another  by  that.  "  I  will  see  you  to-morrow. — Where? 
— At  the  square  of  the  Cathedral. — Very  well. — Very  well. — 
And  something  will  be  done. — And  something  will  be  done." 

"  Which  of  these  good  gentlemen  will  direct  me  to  an  inn, 
where  I  can  get  something  to  eat,  and  a  lodging  for  the  night, 
that  will  suit  a  poor  youth's  pocket?  "  said  Renzo. 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  my  brave  fellow,"  said  one  who  had 
listened  attentively  to  his  harangue,  and  had  not  yet  said  a 
word.  "  I  know  an  inn  that  will  just  suit  you;  and  I  will  in- 
troduce you  to  the  landlord,  who  is  my  friend,  and  a  very 
worthy  man." 

"  Near  at  hand?  "  asked  Renzo. 

"  Only  a  little  way  ofif,"  replied  he. 

The  assembly  dispersed;  and  Renzo,  after  several  warm 
shakes  of  the  hand  from  strangers,  went  off  with  his  new  ac- 
quaintance, thanking  him  heartily  for  his  kindness. 

"  Not  a  word,  not  a  word,"  said  he;  "  one  hand  washes  the 
other,  and  both  the  face.  Is  it  not  one's  duty  to  serve  one's 
neighbour?  "  And  as  he  walked,  he  kept  making  of  Renzo, 
in  the  course  of  conversation,  first  one  and  then  another  in- 
quiry. "  Not  out  of  curiosity  about  your  doings;  but  you  seem 
tired:  where  do  you  come  from?" 

"  I  come,"  replied  Renzo,  "  as  far  as  from  Lecco." 


2o6  MANZONI 

*'  From  Lecco!     Are  you  a  native  of  Lecco? " 

**  Of  Lecco  .  .  .  that  is,  of  the  territory." 

"  Poor  fellow!  from  what  I  have  gathered  in  your  conver- 
sation, you  seem  to  have  been  badly  treated." 

''  Eh!  my  dear  fellow,  I  was  obliged  to  speak  rather  care- 
fully, that  I  might  not  publish  my  afifairs  to  the  world;  but 
.  .  .  .  it's  enough;  some  day  it  will  be  known,  and  then  .... 
But  I  see  a  sign  of  an  inn  here;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  I  am  not 
inclined  to  go  any  farther." 

'*  No,  no;  come  where  I  told  you:  it's  a  very  little  way 
farther,"  said  the  guide;  "  here  you  won't  be  comfortable." 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  youth;  "I'm  not  a  gentleman, 
accustomed  to  down,  though:  something  good  to  supply  the 
garrison,  and  a  straw  mattress,  are  enough  for  me:  and  what 
I  most  want  is  to  find  both  directly.  Here  we  are,  fortunate- 
ly." And  he  entered  a  shabby-looking  doorway,  over  which 
hung  the  sign  of  the  Full  Moon. 

"Well;  I  will  lead  you  here,  since  you  wish  it,"  said  the 
incognito;  and  he  followed  him  on. 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  any  further,"  replied  Renzo. 
"  However,"  added  he,  "  you  will  do  me  the  favour  of  taking 
a  glass  with  me." 

"  I  accept  your  kind  ofifer,"  replied  he;  and  he  advanced, 
as  being  better  acquainted  with  the  place,  before  Renzo, 
through  a  little  court,  approached  a  glass  door,  lifted  up  the 
latch,  and,  opening  it,  entered  with  his  companion  into  the 
kitchen. 

Two  lights  illuminated  the  apartment,  suspended  from  two 
hooks  fixed  in  the  beam  of  the  ceiling.  Many  persons,  all 
of  whom  were  engaged,  were  lounging  on  benches  which 
stretched  along  both  sides  of  a  narrow,  dirty  table,  occupying 
almost  the  whole  of  one  side  of  the  room:  here  and  there  a 
cloth  was  spread,  and  a  few  dishes  set  out;  at  intervals,  cards 
were  played,  and  dice  cast,  and  gathered  up;  and  everywhere 
were  bottles  and  glasses.  On  the  wet  table  were  to  be  seen 
berlinghe,  reali,  and  parpagliole,  which,  could  they  have 
spoken,  would  probably  have  said:  "  This  morning  we  were  in 
a  baker's  till,  or  in  the  pockets  of  some  of  the  spectators  of  the 
tumult;  for  every  one,  intent  on  watching  how  public  matters 
went,  forgot  to  look  after  his  own  private  interests."  The 
clamour  was  great.  A  boy  was  going  backward  and  forward 
in  haste  and  bustle,  waiting  upon  this  table  and  sundry  chess- 
boards: the  host  was  sitting  upon  a  small  bench  under  the 
chimney-piece,  occupied,  apparently,  in  making  and  unmak- 
ing certain  figures  in  the  ashes  with  the  tongs;  but,  in  real- 


THE   BETROTHED 


207 


ity,  intent  on  all  that  was  going  on  around  him.  He  rose  at 
the  sound  of  the  latch,  and  advanced  toward  the  new  comers. 
When  he  saw  the  guide — "  Cursed  fellow!  "  thought  h^,  ''  you 
are  always  coming  to  plague  me,  when  I  least  want  you !  " 
Then,  hastily  glancing  at  Renzo,  he  again  said  to  himself,  ''  I 
don't  know  you;  but,  coming  with  such  a  hunter,  you  must  be 
either  a  dog  or  a  hare :  when  you  have  said  two  words,  I  shall 
know  which."  However,  nothing  of  this  mute  solioquy  ap- 
peared in  the  landlord's  countenance,  which  was  as  immovable 
as  a  picture:  a  round  and  shining  face,  with  a  thick  reddish 
beard,  and  two  bright  and  staring  eyes. 

"  What  are  your  commands,  gentlemen?  "  said  he. 

"  First  of  all,  a  good  flask  of  wine,"  said  Renzo,  ''  and  then 
something  to  eat."  So  saying,  he  sat  down  on  a  bench  to- 
ward the  end  of  the  table,  and  uttered  a  sonorous  "  Ah!  "  which 
seemed  to  say  that  it  did  one  good  to  sit  down  after  having 
been  so  long  standing  and  working  so  hard.  But  immediately 
the  recollection  of  the  bench  and  table  at  which  he  had  last  sat 
with  Lucia  and  Agnese  rushed  to  his  mind,  and  forced  from 
him  a  sigh.  He  shook  his  head  to  drive  away  the  thought, 
and  then  saw  the  host  coming  with  the  wine.  His  companion 
had  sat  down  opposite  to  Renzo,  who  poured  him  out  a  glass, 
and  pushed  it  toward  him,  saying,  *'  To  moisten  your  lips." 
And  filling  the  other  glass,  he  emptied  it  at  one  draught. 

"  What  can  you  give  me  to  eat?  "  then  demanded  he  of  the 
landlord. 

"  A  good  bit  of  stewed  meat?  "  asked  he. 

"  Yes,  sir;  a  bit  of  stewed  meat." 

"You  shall  be  served  directly,"  said  the  host  to  Renzo; 
and  turning  to  the  boy:  '*  Attend  to  this  stranger." 

And  he  retreated  to  the  fire-place.  "  But  .  .  ."  resumed 
he,  turning  again  toward  Renzo,  "  we  have  no  bread  to-day." 

"  As  to  bread,"  said  Renzo,  in  a  loud  voice  and  laughing, 
"  Providence  has  provided  that."  And  drawing  from  his 
pocket  the  third  and  last  loaf  which  he  had  picked  up  under 
the  Cross  of  San  Dionigi,  he  raised  it  in  the  air,  exclaiming, 
"  Behold  the  bread  of  Providence!"  Many  turned  on  hear- 
ing this  exclamation;  and,  seeing  such  a  trophy  in  the  air, 
somebody  called  out,  "  Hurrah  for  bread  at  a  low  price!  " 

''At  a  low  price?"  said  Renzo;  ''Gratis  et  amore." 

"  Better  still,  better  still." 

"  But,"  added  he,  immediately,  "  I  should  not  like  these 
gentlemen  to  think  ill  of  me.  I  have  not,  as  they  say,  stolen  it: 
I  found  it  on  the  ground;  and  if  I  could  find  its  owner,  I  am 
ready  to  pay  him  for  it." 


2o3  MANZONI 

"Bravo!  bravo!"  cried  his  companions,  laughing  more 
loudly,  without  its  entering  into  one  of  their  minds  that  these 
words  seriously  expressed  a  real  fact  and  intention. 

"They  think  I'm  joking;  but  it's  just  so,"  said  Renzo,  to 
his  guide;  and,  turning  the  loaf  over  in  his  hand,  he  added: 
"  See  how  they've  crushed  it;  it  looks  like  a  cake:  but  there 
were  plenty  close  by  it!  if  any  of  them  had  had  very  tender 
bones  they'd  have  come  badly  off."  Then,  biting  off  and 
devouring  three  or  four  mouthfuls,  he  swallowed  another  glass 
of  wine,  and  added:  "This  bread  won't  go  down  alone.  I 
never  had  so  dry  a  throat.     A  great  shouting  there  was !  " 

"  Prepare  a  good  bed  for  this  honest  fellow,"  said  the  guide; 
"  for  he  intends  to  sleep  here." 

"  Do  you  wish  a  bed?  "  asked  the  landlord  of  Renzo,  ad- 
vancing toward  the  table. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  he :  "  a  bed,  to  be  sure ;  only  let  the 
sheets  be  clean;  for,  though  I'm  but  a  poor  lad,  I'm  accus- 
tomed to  cleanliness." 

"  Oh!  as  to  that,"  said  the  host;  and  going  to  a  counter 
that  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen,  he  returned  with  an  ink- 
stand and  a  little  bit  of  writing-paper  in  one  hand  and  a  pen 
in  the  other. 

"  What  does  this  mean?  "  exclaimed  Renzo,  gulping  down 
a  mouthful  of  the  stew  that  the  boy  had  set  before  him,  and 
then  smiling  in  astonishment;  "is  this  the  white  sheet,  eh?" 

Without  making  any  reply,  the  landlord  laid  the  paper  on 
the  table,  and  put  the  inkstand  by  the  paper:  then  stooping 
forward,  he  rested  his  left  arm  on  the  table  and  his  right 
elbow,  and  holding  the  pen  in  the  air,  with  his  face  raised  to- 
ward Renzo,  said  to  him:  "Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell 
me  your  name,  surname,  and  country?  " 

"What?"  said  Renzo;  "what  has  all  this  to  do  with  my 
bed?" 

"  I  do  my  duty,"  said  the  host,  looking  toward  the  guide; 
"  we  are  obliged  to  give  an  account  and  relation  of  every  one 
that  comes  to  sleep  in  our  house:  name  and  surname,  and  of 
what  nation  he  is,  on  what  business  he  comes,  if  he  has  any 
arms  with  him  ....  how  long  he  intends  to  stay  in  this  city 
....  They  are  the  very  words  of  the  proclamation." 

Before  replying,  Renzo  swallowed  another  glass;  it  was 
the  third,  and  from  this  time  forward,  I  fear  we  shall  not  be 
able  to  count  them.  He  then  said,  "Ah!  ah!  you  have  the 
proclamation!  And  I  pride  myself  upon  being  a  doctor  of 
law;  so  I  know  well  enough  what  importance  is  attached  to 
edicts." 


THE   BETROTHED  209 

"  I  speak  in  earnest,"  said  the  landlord,  keeping  his  eye  on 
Renzo's  mute  companion;  and  going  again  to  the  counter,  he 
drew  out  a  large  sheet,  an  exact  copy  of  the  proclamaA)n,  and 
came  to  display  it  before  Renzo's  eyes. 

*'  Ah!  see!  "  exclaimed  the  youth,  raising  the  refilled  glass 
in  one  hand,  and  quickly  emptying  it,  while  he  stretched 
out  the  other,  and  pointed  with  his  finger  toward  the  un- 
folded proclamation ;  "  look  at  that  fine  sheet,  like  a  missal. 
I'm  delighted  to  see  it.  I  know  those  arms;  and  I  know 
what  that  heretical  face  means  with  a  noose  round  its 
neck."  (At  the  head  of  the  edicts  the  arms  of  the  governor 
were  usually  placed;  and  in  those  of  Don  Gonzalo  Fer- 
nandez de  Cordova  appeared  a  Moorish  king,  chained  by  the 
throat.) 

"  That  face  means:  Command  who  can,  and  obey  who  will. 

When  that  face  shall  have  sent  to  the  galleys  Signor  don 

never  mind,  I  know  who ;  as  another  parchment  says,  like  this ; 
when  it  has  provided  that  an  honest  youth  may  marry  an 
honest  girl  who  is  willing  to  be  married  to  him,  then  I  will  tell 
my  name  to  this  face,  and  will  give  it  a  kiss  into  the  bargain. 
I  may  have  very  good  reasons  for  not  telling  my  name.  Oh, 
truly!     And  if  a  rascal,  who  had  under  his  command  a  handful 

more  of  rascals;  for  if  he  were  alone "     Here  he  finished 

his  sentence  with  a  gesture:  "If  a  rascal  wanted  to  knov/ 
where  I  am  to  do  me  an  ill  turn,  I  ask  if  that  face  would  move 
itself  to  help  me.  I'm  to  tell  my  business!  This  is  something 
new.  Supposing  I  had  come  to  Milan  to  confess,  I  should 
wish  to  confess  to  a  Capuchin  Father,  I  beg  to  say,  and  not 
to  a  landlord." 

The  host  was  silent,  and  looked  toward  the  guide,  who 
gave  no  token  of  noticing  what  passed.  Renzo,  we  grieve  to 
say,  swallowed  another  glass,  and  continued:  *'  I  will  give  you 
a  reason,  my  dear  landlord,  which  will  satisfy  you.  If  those 
proclamations  which  speak  in  favour  of  good  Christians  are 
worth  nothing,  those  which  speak  against  them  are  worth  still 
less.  So  carry  away  all  these  bothering  things,  and  bring  us 
instead  another  fiask;  for  this  is  broken."  So  saying,  he 
tapped  it  lightly  with  his  knuckles,  and  added:  ''  Listen,  how 
it  sounds  like  a  cracked  bottle." 

Renzo's  language  had  again  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
party;  and  when  he  ceased,  there  arose  a  general  murmur  of 
approbation. 

''What  must  I  do?"  said  the  host,  looking  at  the  incog- 
nito, who  was,  however,  no  stranger  to  him. 

"  Away,  away  with  them,"  cried  many  of  the  guests;  "  this 

14 


210  MANZONI 

countryman  has  some  sense;  they  are  grievances,  tricks,  im- 
positions ;  new  laws  to-day,  new  laws !  " 

In  tke  midst  of  these  cries,  the  incognito,  glancing  toward 
the  landlord  a  look  of  reproof  for  this  too  public  magisterial 
summons,  said,  '*  Let  him  have  his  own  way  a  little;  don't  give 
any  offence." 

"  I  have  done  my  duty,"  said  the  host,  in  a  loud  voice;  and 
added,  to  himself,  "  Now  I  have  my  shoulders  against  the 
wall."  He  then  removed  the  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  took 
the  empty  flagon  to  give  it  to  the  boy. 

"  Bring  the  same  sort  of  wine,"  said  Renzo;  "  for  I  find  it 
a  worthy  fellow,  and  will  send  it  to  sleep  with  the  other,  with- 
out asking  its  name  or  surname,  and  what  is  its  business,  and 
if  it  intends  to  stay  any  time  in  the  city." 

'  *'  Some  more  of  the  same  sort,"  said  the  landlord  to  the 
boy,  giving  him  the  fiask;  and  he  returned  to  his  seat  under 
the  chimney-piece.  "  More  simple  than  a  hare !  "  thought  he, 
figuring  aw^ay  in  the  cinders,  ''  and  into  what  hands  hast  thou 
fallen!  Thou  great  ass!  If  thou  wilt  drown,  drown;  but  the 
landlord  of  the  Full  Moon  isn't  obliged  to  go  shares  in  thy 
folly!" 

Renzo  returned  thanks  to  his  guide,  and  to  all  the  rest  who 
had  taken  his  part.  "  Brave  friends,"  said  he,  "  now  I  see 
clearly  that  honest  fellows  give  each  other  a  hand,  and  support 
each  other."  Then  waving  his  hand  in  the  air,  over  the  table, 
and  again  assuming  the  air  of  a  speaker,  "  Isn't  it  an  admirable 
thing,"  exclaimed  he,  "  that  all  our  rulers  will  have  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  intruding  everywhere?  Always  a  pen  in  the  hand! 
They  must  have  a  mighty  passion  for  wielding  the  pen !  " 

"Eh!  you  worthy  countryman!  would  you  like  to  know 
the  reason?  "  said  a  winner  in  one  of  the  games,  laughing. 

"  Let  us  hear,"  replied  Renzo. 

"  The  reason  is,"  said  he,  "  that  as  these  Signori  eat  geese, 
they  find  they  have  got  so  many  quills  that  they  are  obliged 
to  make  something  of  them." 

All  began  to  laugh,  excepting  the  poor  man  who  had  just 
been  a  loser. 

"  Oh,"  said  Renzo,  "  this  man  is  a  poet.  You  have  some 
poets  here,  then:  they  are  springing  up  everywhere.  I  have 
a  little  turn  that  way  myself;  and  sometimes  I  make  some 
fine  verses  ....  but  that's  when  tilings  go  smoothly." 

To  understand  this  nonsense  of  poor  Renzo's,  the  reader 
must  know  that,  among  the  lower  orders,  in  Milan,  and  still 
more  in  the  country,  the  term  poet  did  not  signify,  as  among 
all  educated  people,  a  sacred  genius,  an  inhabitant  of  Pindus, 


THE   BETROTHED  211 

a  votary  of  the  Muses;  it  rather  meant  a  humorous  and  even 
giddy-headed  person,  who  in  conversation  and  behaviour  had 
more  repartee  and  novehy  than  sense.  So  daring  ai^  these 
mischief-makers  among  the  vulgar,  in  destroying  the  meaning 
of  words,  and  making  them  express  things  the  most  foreign 
and  contrary  to  their  legitimate  signification!  For  what,  I 
should  like  to  know,  has  a  poet  to  do  with  a  giddy  brain? 

''But  ril  tell  you  the  true  reason,"  added  Renzo;  ''it  is 
because  they  hold  the  pen  in  their  own  hand :  and  so  the  words 
that  they  utter  fly  away  and  disappear;  the  words  that  a  poor 
lad  speaks  are  carefully  noted,  and  very  soon  they  fly  through 
the  air  with  his  pen,  and  are  down  upon  paper  to  be  made  use 
of  at  a  proper  time  and  place.  They've  also  another  trick,  that 
when  they  would  bother  a  poor  fellow  who  doesn't  know  let- 
ters, but  who  has  a  little  ....  I  know  what  .  .  .  ."  and  to 
illustrate  his  meaning,  he  began  tapping,  and  almost  battering 
his  forehead  with  his  forefinger,  "  no  sooner  do  they  perceive 
that  he  begins  to  understand  the  puzzle,  than,  forsooth,  they 
must  throw  in  a  little  Latin,  to  make  him  lose  the  thread,  to 
prevent  his  defending  himself,  and  to  perplex  his  brain.  Well, 
well!  it  is  our  business  to  do  away  with  these  practices.  To- 
day everything  has  been  done  reasonably,  in  our  own  tongue, 
and  without  pen,  ink,  and  paper:  and  to-morrow,  if  people  will 
but  govern  themselves,  we  will  do  still  better;  without  touch- 
ing a  hair  of  their  heads,  though;  everything  must  be  done  in 
a  fair  way." 

In  the  mean  time  some  of  the  company  had  returned  to 
their  gaming,  others  to  eating,  and  many  to  shouting;  some 
went  away,  and  others  arrived  in  their  place;  the  landlord 
busied  himself  in  attending  upon  all;  but  these  things  have 
nothing  to  do  with  our  story. 

The  unknown  guide  was  impatient  to  take  his  departure; 
yet,  though  he  had  not,  to  all  appearance,  any  business  at  the 
house,  he  would  not  go  away  till  he  had  chatted  a  little  with 
Renzo,  individually.  He,  therefore,  turned  to  him,  and  re- 
newed the  conversation  about  bread;  and  after  a  few  of  those 
expressions  which  had  been,  for  some  time,  in  everybody's 
mouth,  he  began  to  give  his  own  opinion.  "  Eh!  if  I  were  rul- 
ing," said  he,  "  I  would  find  a  way  of  making  things  right." 

"  How  would  you  do?  "  asked  Renzo,  fixing  on  him  two 
eyes  more  sparkling  than  usual,  and  twisting  his  mouth  away, 
as  it  were  to  be  more  attentive. 

"  How  would  I  do?  "  said  he;  "I  would  have  bread  for  all: 
for  poor  as  well  as  rich." 

"  Ah!  so  far  well,"  said  Renzo. 


212  MANZONI 

"  See  how  I  would  do.  First,  I  would  fix  a  moderate  price, 
that  everybody  could  reach.  Then  I  would  distribute  bread 
according  to  the  number  of  mouths :  for  there  are  some  incon- 
siderate gluttons  who  would  have  all  to  themselves,  and  strive 
who  can  get  the  most,  buying  at  a  high  price,  and  thus  there 
isn't  bread  enough  for  the  poor  people.  Therefore,  distribute 
bread.  And  how  should  that  be  done?  See:  give  a  note  to 
every  family,  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  mouths,  to  go 
and  get  bread  at  the  bake-houses.  To  me,  for  example,  they 
should  give  a  note  of  this  kind:  *  Ambrogio  Fusella,  by  trade  a 
sword-cutler,  with  a  wife  and  four  children,  all  of  an  age 
to  eat  bread  (note  that  well):  let  them  have  so  much  bread; 
and  pay  so  many  pence.'  But  to  do  things  justly  it  must  al- 
ways be  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  mouths.  You,  we  will 
suppose,  ought  to  have  a  note  for  ....  your  name?  " 

"  Lorenzo  Tramaglino,"  said  the  youth;  who,  delighted 
with  the  plan,  never  recollected  that  it  was  entirely  founded  on 
paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and  that  to  put  it  in  execution  the  first 
thing  must  be  to  get  everybody's  name. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  stranger;  **  but  have  you  a  wife  and 
children?  " 

"  I  ought,  indeed  ....  children,  no  ...  .  too  soon 
....  but  a  wife  ....  if  the  world  went  as  it  ought  .  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  you  are  single!  Well,  have  patience;  but  a  smaller 
portion  .  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  right;  but  if  soon,  as  I  hope  ....  and  by  the 
help  of  God  ....  Enough;  and  when  I've  a  wife  too?" 

"  Then  change  the  note,  and  increase  the  quantity.  As  I 
said;  always  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  mouths,"  said 
the  unknown,  rising  from  his  seat. 

"That  is  all  very  good,"  cried  Renzo;  and  he  continued 
vociferously,  as  he  struck  his  hand  upon  the  table:  "  and  why 
don't  they  make  a  law  of  this  kind?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell?  But  I  must  bid  you  good  night,  and  be 
ofif ;  for  I  fancy  my  wife  and  children  have  been  looking  out  for 
me  this  good  while." 

"  Just  another  little  drop — another  little  drop,"  cried  Ren- 
zo, hastily  filling  his  glass;  and,  rising  quickly,  he  seized  the 
skirt  of  his  doublet,  and  tried  to  force  him  to  sit  down  again. 
"Another  little  drop;  don't  do  me  this  insult." 

But  his  friend  disengaged  himself  with  a  sudden  jerk,  and 
leaving  Renzo  to  indulge  in  importunity  and  reproaches  as 
he  pleased,  again  said,  "  Good  night,"  and  went  away.  Ren- 
zo shouted  after  him  when  he  had  even  reached  the  street, 
and  then  sank  back  upon  his  seat.     He  eyed  the  glass  that 


THE   BETROTHED  213 

he  had  just  filled;  and  seeing  the  boy  passing  the  table,  he  de- 
tained him  with  a  beckon  of  his  hand,  as  if  he  had  some  busi- 
ness to  communicate  to  him;  he  then  pointed  to  the  glass, 
and,  with  a  slow  and  grave  enunciation,  and  pronouncing  the 
words  in  a  peculiar  manner,  said:  "  See,  I  had  prepared  it  for 
that  worthy  gentleman:  do  you  see?  full  to  the  brim,  fit  for  a 
friend;  but  he  wouldn't  have  it;  people  have  very  odd  ideas, 
sometimes.  I  couldn't  do  otherwise;  I  let  him  see  my  kind  in- 
tentions. Now,  then,  since  the  thing  is  done,  I  mustn't  let  it 
go  to  waste."  So  saying,  he  took  it,  and  emptied  it  at  a 
draught. 

*'  I  understand,"  said  the  boy,  going  away. 

"Ah!  you  understand,  do  you?"  replied  Renzo;  ''then  it 
is  true.     When  reasons  are  sensible!  .  .  ." 

Nothing  less  than  our  love  of  truthfulness  would  induce  us 
to  prosecute  a  faithful  account  which  does  so  little  credit  to 
so  important  a  person,  we  may  almost  say,  to  the  principal 
hero,  of  our  story.  From  this  same  motive  of  impartiality, 
however,  we  must  also  state  that  this  was  the  first  time  that 
such  a  thing  happened  to  Renzo;  and  it  is  just  because  he  was 
not  accustomed  to  such  excesses  that  his  first  attempt  suc- 
ceeded so  fatally.  The  few  glasses  that  he  had  swallowed, 
one  after  another,  at  first,  contrary  to  his  usual  habits,  partly  to 
cool  his  parched  throat,  partly  from  a  sort  of  excitement  of 
mind  which  gave  him  no  liberty  to  do  anything  in  moderation, 
quickly  went  to  his  head;  a  more  practised  drinker  would 
probably  never  have  felt  them.  Our  anonymous  author  here 
makes  an  observation  which  we  repeat  for  the  benefit  of  those 
of  our  readers  who  know  how  to  value  it.  Temperate  and 
honest  habits,  says  he,  bring  with  them  this  advantage:  that 
the  more  they  are  stablished  and  rooted  in  a  man,  so  much  the 
more  easily,  when  he  acts  contrary  to  them,  does  he  imme- 
diately feel  the  injury  or  inconvenience,  or,  to  say  the  least, 
the  disagreeableness  of  such  an  action;  so  that  he  has  some- 
thing to  remember  for  a  time;  and  thus  even  a  slight  fault 
serves  him  for  a  lesson. 

However  this  may  be,  certain  it  is  that  when  these  first 
fumes  had  mounted  to  Renzo's  brain,  wine  and  words  con- 
tinued to  flow,  one  down,  the  other  up,  without  measure  or 
reason;  and  at  the  point  w^here  we  have  left  him,  he  had  got 
quite  beyond  his  powers  of  self-government.  He  felt  a  great 
desire  to  talk :  auditors,  or  at  least  men  present  whom  he  could 
imagine  such,  were  not  wanting;  and  for  some  time  also  words 
had  readily  occurred  to  him,  and  he  had  been  able  to  arrange 
them  in  some  sort  of  order.     But  by  degrees  his  power  of  con- 


214  MANZONI 

necting  sentences  began  woefully  to  fail.  The  thought  that 
had  presented  itself  vividly  and  definitely  to  his  mind,  sudden- 
ly clouded  over  and  vanished;  while  the  word  he  wanted  and 
waited  for,  was,  when  it  occurred  to  him,  inapplicable  and  un- 
seasonable. In  this  perplexity,  by  one  of  those  false  instincts 
that  so  often  ruin  men,  he  would  again  have  recourse  to  the 
flagon;  but  any  one  with  a  grain  of  sense  will  be  able  to  im- 
agine of  what  use  the  flagon  was  to  him  then. 

We  will  only  relate  some  of  the  many  words  he  uttered  in 
this  disastrous  evening;  the  others  which  we  omit  would  be 
too  unsuitable;  for  they  not  only  had  no  meaning,  but  made 
no  show  of  having  any — a  necessary  requisite  in  a  printed 
book. 

''  Ah,  host,  host,"  resumed  he,  following  him  with  his  eye 
round  the  table,  or  under  the  chimney-piece;  sometimes  gaz- 
ing at  him  where  he  was  not,  and  talking  all  the  time  in  the 
midst  of  the  uproar  of  the  party;  ''what  a  landlord  you  are! 
I  can  not  swallow  this  ....  this  trick  about  the  name,  sur- 
name, and  business.  To  a  youth  like  me!  ....  You  have 
not  behaved  well.  What  satisfaction  now,  what  advantage, 
what  pleasure  ....  to  put  upon  paper  a  poor  youth?  Don't 
I  speak  sense,  gentlemen?  Landlords  ought  to  stand  by  good 
youths  ....  Listen,  listen,  landlord;  I  will  compare  you 
.  .  .  .  because  ....  Do  you  laugh,  eh!  I  am  a  little  too 
far  gone,  I  know  ....  but  the  reasons  I  would  give  are  right 
enough.  Just  tell  me,  now,  who  is  it  that  keeps  up  your  trade? 
Poor  fellows,  isn't  it?  See  if  any  of  these  gentlemen  of  the 
proclamations  ever  come  here  to  wet  their  lips." 

"  They  are  all  people  that  drink  water,"  said  one  of  Renzo's 
neighbours. 

**  They  want  to  have  their  heads  clear,"  added  another,  "  to 
be  able  to  tell  lies  cleverly." 

"  Ah!  "  cried  Renzo.  "  That  was  the  poet  who  spoke  then. 
Then  you  also  understand  my  reason.  Answer  me,  then,  land- 
lord; and  Ferrer,  who  is  the  best  of  all,  has  he  ever  come  here 
to  drink  a  toast,  or  to  spend  a  quarter  of  a  farthing?  And  that 
dog  of  a  villain,  Don  ....  I'll  hold  my  tongue,  because  I'm 
a  careful  fellow.  Ferrer  and  Father  Cr-r-r  ....  I  know, 
they  are  two  worthy  men ;  but  there  are  so  few  worthy  men  in 
the  world.  The  old  are  worse  than  the  young;  and  the  young 
.  .  .  .  worse  again  than  the  old.  However,  I  am  glad  there 
has  been  no  murdering;  fie;  cruelties  that  should  be  left  for 
the  hangman's  hands.  Bread;  oh,  yes!  I  got  some  great 
pushes,  but  ....  I  gave  some  away  too.  Room!  plenty! 
long  live!  .  .  .  However,  even  Ferrer  .  .  .  some  few  words 


THE   BETROTHED  215 

in  Latin  ....  sies  baraos  trapolorum  ....  Cursed  trick! 
Long  live!  .  .  .  justice!  bread!  Ah,  these  are  fair  words! 
....  There  we  wanted  these  comrades  ....  when  that 
cursed  ton,  ton,  ton,  broke  forth,  and  then  again  ton,  ton,  ton. 
We  did  not  flee  then,  do  you  see,  to  keep  that  Signor  Curate 
there  ....  I  know  what  I'm  thinking  about!  " 

At  these  words  he  bent  down  his  head,  and  remained  some 
time  as  if  absorbed  in  some  idea;  he  then  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
and  raised  a  face  with  two  piteous-looking  eyes,  and  such  an 
expression  of  disagreeable  and  stupid  grief,  that  woe  to  him  if 
the  object  of  it  could  have  seen  him  at  that  moment.  But  the 
wicked  men  around  him,  who  had  already  begun  to  divert 
themselves  with  the  impassioned  and  confused  eloquence  of 
Renzo,  now  hastened  to  ridicule  his  countenance  tinctured 
with  remorse;  the  nearest  to  him  said  to  the  others,  "  Look 
at  him ;  "  and  all  turned  toward  the  poor  fellow,  so  that  he  be- 
came the  laughing-stock  of  the  unruly  company.  Not  that  all 
of  them  were  in  their  perfect  senses,  or  in  their  ordinary  senses, 
whatever  they  might  be;  but,  to  say  the  truth,  none  of  them 
had  gone  so  far  as  poor  Renzo :  and  still  more,  he  was  a  coun- 
tryman. They  began,  first  one  and  then  another,  to  provoke 
him  with  foolish  and  unmannerly  questions,  and  jesting  cere- 
monies. One  moment  he  would  seem  to  be  oiYended,  the  next, 
would  take  the  treatment  in  joke;  now,  without  taking  notice  of 
all  these  voices,  he  would  talk  of  something  quite  different,  now 
replying,  now  interrogating,  but  always  by  starts  and  blunders. 
Fortunately,  in  all  this  extravagance,  he  had  preserved  a  kind 
of  instinctive  carefulness  not  to  mention  the  names  of  persons, 
so  that  even  that  which  was  most  likely  to  be  firmly  fixed  in 
his  memory  was  not  once  uttered;  for  deeply  it  would  have 
grieved  us  if  that  name  for  which  even  we  entertain  a  degree 
of  respect  and  affection,  had  been  bandied  about,  and  become 
the  sport  of  these  abandoned  wretches. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE  landlord,  seeing  the  game  was  lasting  too  long,  and 
being  carried  too  far,  had  approached  Renzo,  and,  with 
the  greatest  politeness,  requesting  the  others  to  leave 
him  alone,  began  shaking  him  by  the  arm,  and  tried  to 
make  him  understand,  and  persuade  him  that  he  had  better  go 
to  bed.  But  Renzo  could  not  forget  the  old  subject  of  the 
name,  and  surname,  the  proclamations,  and  worthy  youths. 
However,  the  words  "  bed  "  and  "  sleep,"  repeated  in  his  ear, 
wrought  some  kind  of  impression  on  his  mind ;  they  made  him 
feel  a  little  more  distinctly  his  need  of  what  they  signified,  and 
produced  a  momentary  lucid  interval.  The  little  sense  that  re- 
turned to  his  mind,  made  him,  in  some  degree,  sensible  that 
most  of  his  companions  had  gone:  as  the  last  glimmering 
torch  in  an  illumination  shows  all  the  others  extinguished. 
He  made  a  resolution;  placed  his  open  hands  upon  the  table; 
tried  once  or  twice  to  raise  himself;  sighed,  staggered,  and,  at 
a  third  attempt,  supported  by  his  host,  he  stood  upon  his  feet. 
The  landlord,  steadying  him  as  he  walked  along,  guided  him 
from  between  the  bench  and  the  table,  and  taking  a  lamp  in 
one  hand,  partly  conducted,  and  partly  dragged  him  with  the 
other,  toward  the  door  of  the  stairs.  Here,  Renzo,  on  hearing 
the  noise  of  the  salutations  which  wxre  shouted  after  him^by 
the  company,  hastily  turned  round,  and  if  his  supporter  had 
not  been  very  alert,  and  held  him  by  the  arm,  the  evolution 
would  have  ended  in  a  heavy  fall:  however,  he  managed  to 
turn  back,  and,  with  his  unconfined  arm,  began  figuring  and 
describing  in  the  air  sundry  salutes  like  a  running  knot. 

"  Let  us  go  to  bed;  to  bed,"  said  the  landlord,  pushing  him 
forward  through  the  door;  and  with  still  more  difficulty  draw- 
ing him  to  the  top  of  the  narrow  wooden  staircase,  and  then 
into  the  room  he  had  prepared  for  him.  Renzo  rejoiced  on 
seeing  his  bed  ready;  he  looked  graciously  upon  his  host,  with 
eyes  which  one  moment  glistened  more  than  ever,  and  the 
next  faded  away,  like  two  fire-flies:  he  endeavoured  to  steady 
himself  on  his  legs,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  his 

216 


THE    BETROTHED 


217 


host's  cheek  to  take  it  between  his  first  and  middle  fingers,  in 
token  of  friendship  and  gratitude,  but  he  could  not  succeed. 
"  Brave  landlord,"  he  at  last  managed  to  stammer  out;  "  now 
I  see  that  you  are  a  worthy  fellow :  this  is  a  kind  deed,  to  give 
a  poor  youth  a  bed;  but  that  trick  about  the  name  and  sur- 
name, that  wasn't  like  a  gentleman.  By  good  luck,  I  saw 
through  it  .  .  .  ." 

The  landlord,  who  little  thought  he  could  have  uttered 
anything  so  connected,  and  who  knew,  by  long  experience, 
how  men  in  such  a  condition  may  be  induced  more  easily 
than  usual,  suddenly  to  change  their  minds,  was  determined 
to  take  advantage  of  this  lucid  interval,  to  make  another  at- 
tempt. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  with  a  most  coaxing  tone  and 
look,  '*  I  didn't  do  it  to  vex  you,  nor  to  pry  into  your  affairs. 
What  would  you  have?  There  are  the  laws;  and  we  must 
obey  them;  otherwise  we  are  the  first  to  suffer  the  punishment. 
It  is  better  to  satisfy  them,  and  ....  After  all,  what  is  it 
all  about?  A  great  thing,  certainly,  to  say  two  words!  Not, 
however,  for  them,  but  to  do  me  a  favour.  Here,  between 
ourselves,  face  to  face,  let  us  do  our  business;  tell  me  your 
name  and  ....  and  then  go  to  bed  with  a  quiet  mind." 

"Ah,  rascal!"  exclaimed  Renzo;  "cheat!  you  are  again 
returning  to  the  charge,  with  that  infamous  name,  surname, 
and  business!  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  simpleton,  and  go  to  bed,"  said  the 
landlord. 

But  Renzo  pursued  more  vehemently:  "I  understand: 
you  are  one  of  the  league.  Wait,  wait,  and  I'll  settle  it."  And 
directing  his  voice  toward  the  head  of  the  stairs,  he  began  to 
shout  more  vociferously  than  ever,  "  Friends!  the  landlord  is 
of  the  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  only  said  it  in  joke,"  cried  he,  in  Renzo's  face,  repuls- 
ing him,  and  pushing  him  toward  the  bed — "in  joke:  didn't 
you  understand  that  I  only  said  it  in  joke?  " 

"  Ah!  in  joke:  now  you  speak  sensibly.  When  you  say  in 
joke  ....  They  are  just  things  to  make  a  joke  of."  And  he 
sank  upon  the  bed. 

"  Here;  undress  yourself,  and  be  quick,"  said  the  host,  add- 
ing assistance  to  his  advice;  and  there  was  need  of  it.  When 
Renzo  had  succeeded  in  getting  off  his  waistcoat,  the  landlord 
took  it,  and  put  his  hands  in  the  pockets  to  see  if  there  were 
any  money  in  them.  His  search  was  successful;  and  thinking 
that  his  guest  w^ould  have  something  else  to  do  than  to  pay  him 
^  the  morrow,  and  that  this  money  would  probably  fall  into 


2i8  MANZONI 

hands  whence  a  landlord  would  not  easily  be  able  to  recover 
any  share,  he  resolved  to  risk  another  attempt. 

*'  You  are  a  good  youth,  and  an  honest  man,  aren't  you?  " 
said  he. 

*'  Good  youth,  and  honest  man,"  replied  Renzo,  vainly  en- 
deavouring to  undo  the  buttons  of  the  clothes  which  he  had 
not  yet  been  able  to  take  off. 

"Very  well,"  rejoined  the  host;  ''just  settle,  then,  this 
little  account;  for  to-morrow  I  must  go  out  on  some  busi- 
ness .  .  .  ." 

''That's  only  fair,"  said  Renzo;  "I'm  a  fool,  but  I'm 
honest  ....  But  the  money?  Am  I  to  go  look  for  money 
now!  .... 

"  It's  here,"  said  the  innkeeper;  and  calling  up  all  his  prac- 
tice, patience,  and  skill,  he  succeeded  in  settling  the  account, 
and  securing  the  reckoning. 

"  Lend  me  a  hand  to  finish  undressing,  landlord,"  said 
Renzo;  "  I'm  beginning  to  feel  very  sleepy." 

The  landlord  performed  the  required  ofhce :  he  then  spread 
the  quilt  over  him,  and  almost  before  he  had  time  to  say,  dis- 
dainfully, "Good  night!"  Renzo  was  snoring  fast  asleep. 
Yet,  with  that  sort  of  attraction  wdiich  sometimes  induces  us 
to  contemplate  an  object  of  dislike  as  well  as  of  affection,  and 
which,  perhaps,  is  nothing  else  than  a  desire  of  knowing  what 
operates  so  forcibly  on  our  mind,  he  paused,  for  a  moment,  to 
contemplate  so  annoying  a  guest,  holding  the  lamp  toward  his 
face,  and  throwing  the  light  upon  it  with  a  strong  reflection,  by 
screening  it  with  his  hand,  almost  in  the  attitude  in  which  Psy- 
che is  depicted,  when  stealthily  regarding  the  features  of  her 
unknown  consort.  "  Mad  blockhead!"  said  he,  in  his  mind, 
to  the  poor  sleeper,  "  you've  certainly  taken  the  way  to  look 
for  it.  To-morrow  you'll  be  able  to  tell  me  how  youVe  liked 
it.  Clowns,  who  will  stroll  over  the  world,  without  knowing 
whereabouts  the  sun  rises,  just  to  bring  themselves  and  their 
neighbours  into  trouble !  " 

So  saying,  or  rather  thinking,  he  withdrew  the  light,  and 
left  the  room,  locking  the  door  behind  him.  On  the  landing- 
place  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  he  called  the  landlady,  and  bade 
her  leave  the  children  under  the  care  of  a  young  servant  girl, 
and  go  down  into  the  kitchen,  to  preside  and  keep  guard  in  his 
stead.  "  I  must  go  out,  thanks  to  a  stranger  who  has  arrived 
here,  to  my  miisfortune,"  said  he;  and  he  briefly  related  the  an- 
noying circumstance.  He  then  added:  "Have  your  eyes 
everywhere;  and,  above  all,  be  prudent  this  unfortunate  day. 
There's  a  group  of  licentious  fellows  down  below,  who,  be- 


THE   BETROTHED  210 

tween  drink  and  their  own  inclination,  are  ready  enough  to 
talk,  and  will  say  anything.    It  will  be  enough,  if  a  rash  .  .  .  ." 

''  Oh,  I'm  not  a  child;  and  I  know  well  enough  what's  to 
be  done.     I  think  you  can't  say  that,  up  to  this  time  .  .  .  ." 

**  Well,  well;  and  be  sure  they  pay;  and  pretend  not  to 
hear  anything  they  say  about  the  superintendent  of  provisions, 
and  the  governor,  and  Ferrer,  and  the  decurioni,  and  the  cava- 
liers, and  Spain,  and  France,  and  such  fooleries;  for  if  you 
contradict  them,  you'll  come  off  badly  directly;  and  if  you 
agree  with  them,  you  may  fare  badly  afterward:  and  you 
know  well  enough,  that  sometimes  those  who  say  the  worst 
things  .  .  .  But  enough;  when  you  hear  certain  sayings,  turn 
away  your  head,  and  cry,  '  I'm  coming,'  as  if  somebody  was 
calling  you  from  the  other  side;  I'll  come  back  as  quick  as  I 
can." 

So  saying,  he  went  down  with  her  into  the  kitchen,  and 
gave  a  glance  round,  to  see  if  there  was  anything  new  of  conse- 
quence; took  down  his  hat  and  cloak  from  a  peg,  reached  a 
short,  thick  stick  out  of  the  corner,  summed  up,  in  one  glance 
at  his  wife,  the  instructions  he  had  given  her,  and  went  out. 
But  during  these  preparations,  he  had  again  resumed  the 
thread  of  the  apostrophe  begun  at  Renzo's  bedside;  and  con- 
tinued it,  even  while  proceeding  on  his  walk. 

"  Obstinate  fellow  of  a  mountaineer! "  For,  however 
Renzo  was  determined  to  conceal  his  condition,  this  qualifica- 
tion had  betrayed  itself  in  his  words,  pronunciation,  appear- 
ance, and  actions.  "  Such  a  day  as  this,  by  good  policy  and 
judgment,  I  thought  to  have  come  off  clear;  and  you  must  just 
come  in  at  the  end  of  it,  to  spoil  the  egg  in  the  hatching.  Were 
there  no  other  inns  in  Milan,  that  you  must  just  light  upon 
mine?  Would  that  you  had  even  lit  upon  it  alone!  I  would 
then  have  shut  my  eyes  to  it  to-night,  and  to-morrow  morning 
would  have  given  you  a  hint.  But,  my  goor  sir,  no;  you  must 
come  in  company;  and,  to  do  better  still,  in  company  with  a 
sherifif." 

At  every  step  the  innkeeper  met  either  w^th  solitary  pas- 
sengers, or  persons  in  groups  of  three  or  four,  whispering 
together.  At  this  stage  of  his  mute  soliloquy,  he  saw  a  patrol 
of  soldiers  approaching,  and,  going  a  little  aside,  peeped  at 
them  from  under  the  corner  of  his  eye  as  they  passed,  and  con- 
tinued to  himself:  "There  go  the  fool-chastisers.  And  you, 
great  ass,  because  you  saw  a  few  people  rambling  about  and 
making  a  noise,  it  must  even  come  into  your  brain  that  the 
world  is  turning  upside  down.  And  on  this  fine  foundation 
you  have  ruined  yourself,  and  are  trying  to  ruin  me  too;  this 


220  MANZONI 

isn't  fair.  I  did  my  best  to  save  you;  and  you,  you  fool,  in 
return,  have  very  nearly  made  a  disturbance  in  my  inn.  Now 
you  must  get  yourself  out  of  the  scrape,  and  I  will  look  to  my 
own  business.  As  if  I  wanted  to  know  your  name  out  of  curi- 
osity! What  does  it  matter  to  me  whether  it  be  Thaddeus  or 
Bartholomew?  A  mighty  desire  I  have  to  take  the  pen  in 
hand;  but  you  are  not  the  only  people  who  would  have  things 
all  their  own  way.  I  know,  as  well  as  you,  that  there  are  proc- 
lamations which  go  for  nothing:  a  fim.  novelty,  that  a  moun- 
taineer should  come  to  tell  me  that!  But  you  don't  know  that 
proclamations  against  landlords  are  good  for  something.  And 
you  pretend  to  travel  over  the  land,  and  speak;  and  don't 
know  that,  if  one  would  have  one's  own  way,  and  carry  the 
proclamations  in  one's  pocket,  the  first  thing  requisite  is  not 
to  speak  against  them  in  public.  And  for  a  poor  innkeeper 
who  was  of  your  opinion,  and  didn't  ask  the  name  of  any  one 
who  happens  to  favour  him  with  his  company,  do  you  know, 
you  fool,  what  good  things  are  in  store  for  him?  Under  pain 
of  three  hundred  crowns  to  any  one  of  the  aforesaid  landlords, 
tavern-keepers,  and  others,  as  above;  there  are  three  hundred 
crowns  hatched;  and  now  to  spend  them  well;  to  be  applied, 
two-thirds  to  the  royal  chamber,  and  the  other  third  to  the  ac- 
cuser or  informer:  what  a  fine  bait!  And  in  case  of  inability, 
five  years  in  the  galleys,  and  greater  punishment,  pecuniary  or 
corporal,  at  the  will  of  his  Excellency.  Much  obliged  for  all 
his  favours." 

At  these  words  the  landlord  reached  the  door  of  the  court 
of  the  high-sherif¥. 

Here,  as  at  all  the  other  secretaries'  of^ces,  much  business 
was  going  forward.  Everywhere  they  were  engaged  in  giving 
such  orders  as  seemed  most  likely  to  preoccupy  the  following 
day,  to  take  away  every  pretext  for  discontent,  to  overcome  the 
boldness  of  those  who  were  anxious  for  fresh  tumults,  and  to 
confirm  power  in  the  hands  of  those  accustomed  to  exercise  it. 
The  soldiery  round  the  house  of  the  superintendent  were  in- 
creased, and  the  ends  of  the  street  were  blockaded  with  timber, 
and  barricaded  with  carts.  They  commanded  all  the  bakers 
to  make  bread  without  intermission,  and  despatched  couriers 
to  the  surrounding  country,  with  orders  to  send  corn  into  the 
city;  while  noblemen  were  stationed  at  every  bake-house,  who 
repaired  thither  early  in  the  morning  to  superintend  the  dis- 
tribution, and  to  restrain  the  factious,  by  fair  words,  and  the 
authority  of  their  presence.  But  to  give,  as  the  saying  is,  one 
blow  to  the  hoop,  and  another  to  the  cask,  and  to  render  their 
cajolings  more  efficient  by  a  little  awe,  they  thought  also  oi 


THE    BETROTHED  221 

taking  measures  to  seize  some  one  of  the  seditious:  and  this 
was  principally  the  business  of  the  high-sheriff,  whose  temper 
toward  the  insurrection  and  the  insurgents  the  reader  may 
imagine,  when  he  is  informed  of  the  vegetable  fomentation 
which  it  was  found  necessary  to  apply  to  one  of  the  organs  of 
his  metaphysical  profundity.  His  blood-hounds  had  been  in 
the  field  from  the  beginning  of  the  riot:  and  this  self-styled 
Ambrogio  Fusella  was,  as  the  landlord  said,  a  disguised  under- 
sheriff,  sent  about  for  the  express  purpose  of  catching  in  the 
act  some  one  whom  he  could  again  recognize,  whose  motions 
he  could  watch,  and  whom  he  could  keep  in  mind,  so  as  to 
seize,  either  in  the  quiet  of  the  evening  or  next  morning.  He 
had  not  heard  four  words  of  Renzo's  harangue,  before  he  had 
fixed  upon  him  as  a  capital  object — exactly  his  man.  Finding, 
afterward,  that  he  was  just  fresh  from  the  country,  he  had  at- 
tempted the  master-stroke  of  conducting  him  at  once  to  the 
prison,  as  the  safest  inn  in  the  city,  but  here  he  failed,  as  we 
have  related.  He  could,  however,  bring  back  certain  informa- 
tion of  his  name,  surname,  and  country;  besides. a  hundred 
other  fine  conjectural  pieces  of  information;  so  that  when  the 
innkeeper  arrived  here  to  tell  what  he  knew  of  Renzo,  they 
were  already  better  acquainted  with  him  than  he.  He  entered 
the  usual  apartment,  and  deposed  that  a  stranger  had  arrived 
at  his  house  to  lodge,  who  could  not  be  persuaded  to  declare 
his  name. 

*'  You've  done  your  duty  in  giving  us  this  information," 
said  a  criminal  notary,  laying  down  his  pen;  "but  we  know 
it  already." 

"A  strange  mystery!"  thought  the  host:  "they  must  be 
wonderfully  clever!  " 

"  And  we  know,  too,"  continued  the  notary,  "  this  revered 
name." 

"The  name,  too!  how  have  they  managed  it?"  thought 
the  landlord  again. 

"  But  you,"  resumicd  the  other,  with  a  serious  face,  "  you 
don't  tell  all,  candidly." 

"  What  more  have  I  to  say?  " 

"  Ha!  ha!  we  know  very  well  that  this  fellow  brought  to 
your  inn  a  quantity  of  stolen  bread — plundered,  acquired  by 
robbery  and  sedition." 

"A  man  comes,  with  one  loaf  in  his  pocket;  do  you 
think  I  know  where  he  went  to  get  it?  for,  to  speak  as  on 
mv  deathbed,  I  can  positively  afifirm  that  I  saw  but  one 
loaf." 

"There!    always   excusing  and   defending  yourself:    one 


222  MANZONI 

would  think  to  hear  you,  everybody  was  honest.     How  can 
you  prove  that  his  bread  was  fairly  obtained?  " 

"  Why  am  I  to  prove  it?  I  don't  meddle  with  it;  I  am  an 
innkeeper." 

"  You  can  not,  however,  deny  that  this  customer  of  yours 
had  the  temerity  to  utter  injurious  words  against  the  proc- 
lamations, and  to  make  improper  and  shameful  jokes  on  the 
arms  of  his  Excellency." 

*'  Pardon  me,  sir:  how  can  he  be  called  my  customer,  when 
this  is  the  first  time  I've  ever  seen  him?  It  was  the  devil 
(under  your  favour)  that  sent  him  to  my  house:  and  if  I  had 
known  him,  you,  sir,  know  well  enough  I  should  have  had  no 
occasion  to  ask  his  name." 

"  Well :  in  your  inn,  in  your  presence,  inflammatory 
speeches  have  been  uttered,  unadvised  words,  seditious  propo- 
sitions; murmurs,  grumbles,  outcries." 

"  How  can  you  expect,  my  good  sir,  that  I  should  attend 
to  the  extravagances  which  so  many  noisy  fellows,  talking  all 
at  the  same  time,  may  chance  to  utter?  I  must  attend  to  my 
interest,  for  I'm  only  badly  ofi.  And  besides,  your  worship 
knows  well  enough  that  those  who  are  lavish  of  their  tongues 
are  generally  ready  with  their  fists  too,  particularly  when  there 
are  so  many  together,  and  .  .  .  ." 

"Ay,  ay;  leave  them  alone  to  talk  and  fight:  to-morrow 
you'll  see  if  their  tricks  have  gone  out  of  their  heads.  What 
do  you  think?  " 

"  I  think  nothing  about  it.'* 

"  That  the  mob  will  have  got  the  upper  hand  in  Milan?  " 

"Oh,  just  so!" 

"  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see." 

"I  understand  very  well:  the  King  will  be  always  king; 
and  he  that  is  fined  will  be  fined :  but  the  poor  father  of  a  fam- 
ily naturally  wishes  to  escape.  Your  honours  have  the  power, 
and  it  belongs  to  you." 

"  Have  you  many  people  still  in  your  house?  " 

"  A  world  of  them." 

"  And  this  customer  of  yours,  what  is  he  doing?  Does  he 
still  continue  to  be  clamorous,  to  excite  the  people,  and  arouse 
sedition?  " 

"  That  stranger,  your  worship  means:  he's  gone  to  bed." 

"  Then,  you've  many  people  ....  Well,  take  care  not  to 
let  them  go  away." 

"  Am  I  to  be  a  constable?  "  thought  the  landlord,  without 
replying,  either  negatively  or  affirmatively. 

"  Go  home  again,  and  be  careful,"  resumed  the  notary. 


THE   BETROTHED 


223 


*'  I've  always  been  careful.  Your  honour  can  say  whether 
I  have  ever  made  any  opposition  to  justice." 

"Well,  well;  and  don't  think  that  justice  has  lost  its 
power." 

"I!  For  Heaven's  sake!  I  think  nothing:  I  only  at- 
tend to  my  business." 

''  The  old  song:  you've  never  anything  else  to  say." 

"  What  else  would  your  worship  have  me  say?  truth  is  but 
one." 

"Well:  we  will  remember  what  you  have  deposed;  if  the 
case  comes  on,  you  will  have  to  give  more  particular  informa- 
tion to  justice  about  whatever  they  may  choose  to  ask  you." 

"  What  can  I  depose  further?  I  know  nothing.  I  have 
scarcely  head  enough  to  attend  to  my  own  business." 

"  Take  care  you  don't  let  him  go." 

"  I  hope  that  his  worship  the  high-sheriff  will  be  informed 
that  I  came  immediately  to  discharge  my  duty.  Your  hon- 
our's humble  servant." 

By  break  of  day,  Renzo  had  been  snoring  for  about  seven 
hours,  and  was  still,  poor  fellow,  fast  asleep,  when  two  rough 
shakes  at  either  arm,  and  a  voice  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  calling, 
"Lorenzo  Tramaglino!"  recalled  him  to  his  senses.  He 
shook  himself,  stretched  his  arms,  and  with  dif^culty  opening 
his  eyes,  saw  a  man  standing  before  him  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
dressed  in  black,  and  two  others  armed,  one  on  the  right  and 
the  other  on  the  left  of  his  pillow.  Between  surprise,  not  be- 
ing fully  awake,  and  the  stupidity  occasioned  by  the  wine  of 
the  night  before,  he  lay,  for  a  moment,  as  if  bewildered;  and 
then,  thinking  he  was  dreaming,  and  not  being  very  well 
pleased  with  his  dream,  he  shook  himself  so  as  to  awake  thor- 
oughly. 

"Ah!  have  you  heard,  for  once,  Lorenzo  Tramaglino?" 
said  the  man  with  the  black  cloak,  the  very  notary  of  the  night 
before.     "  Up;  up,  then;  get  up,  and  come  with  us." 

"Lorenzo   Tramaglino!"    said   Renzo;    "what   does   this 
mean?     What  do  you  want  with  me?     Who's  told  you  my 
?" 

Less  talk,  and  up  with  you  directly,"  said  one  of  the  bail- 
iffs who  stood  at  his  side,  taking  him  again  by  the  arm. 

"Ah,  eh!  what  oppression  is  this?"  cried  Renzo,  with- 
drawing his  arm.     "  Landlord!  ho,  landlord!  " 

"  Shall  we  carry  him  off  in  his  shirt?  "  said  the  bailiff  again, 
looking  toward  the  notary. 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  said  he  to  Renzo;  "they'll  do  so, 
if  you  don't  get  up  as  quick  as  thought,  and  come  with  us." 


name 


224 


MANZONI 


"  And  what  for?  "  asked  Renzo. 

"  The  what  for  you  will  hear  from  the  high-sherifif." 

"I?  Fm  an  honest  man;  I've  done  nothing;  and  I'm  as- 
tonished ...   !  " 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you — so  much  the  better  for  you ; 
for  then  you  may  be  discharged  with  two  words,  and  may  go 
about  your  own  business." 

"  Let  me  go  now,"  said  Renzo:  ''  I've  nothing  to  do  with 
justice. 

*'  Come,  let  us  finish  the  business,"  said  one  of  the  bailiffs. 

"  Shall  we  carry  him  ofif?  "  said  the  other. 

"  Lorenzo  Tramaglino!  "  said  the  notary. 

"  How  do  you  know  my  name,  sir?  " 

"  Do  your  duty,"  said  the  notary  to  the  bailififs,  who  im- 
mediately laid  hands  on  Renzo  to  pull  him  out  of  bed. 

"  Hey!  don't  you  touch  a  hair  of  an  honest  fellow,  or! 
....  I  know  how  to  dress  myself." 

"  Then  dress  yourself,  and  get  up  directly,"  said  the  notary. 

''I'm  getting  up,"  replied  Renzo;  and  he  began,  in  fact, 
to  gather  up  his  clothes,  which  were  scattered  here  and  there 
on  the  bed,  like  the  relics  of  a  shipwreck  on  the  shore.  And 
beginning  to  dress  himself,  he  continued:  ''  But  I'm  not  in- 
clined to  go  to  the  high-sheriff,  not  I.  I've  nothing  to  do  with 
him.  Since  you  unjustly  put  this  affront  upon  me,  I  should 
like  to  be  conducted  to  Ferrer.  I  know  him;  I  know  that  he's 
a  gentleman,  and  he's  under  some  obligation  to  me." 

^'  Yes,  yes,  my  good  fellow,  you  shall  be  conducted  to  Fer- 
rer," replied  the  notary.  In  other  circumstances  he  would 
have  laughed  heartily  at  such  a  proposal;  but  this  was  not  a 
time  for  merriment.  In  coming  hither,  he  had  noticed  in  the 
streets  a  movement  which  could  not  easily  be  defined,  as  the 
remainder  of  the  old  insurrection  not  entirely  suppressed,  or 
the  beginning  of  a  new  one:  the  streets  were  full  of  people, 
some  walking  in  parties,  some  standing  in  groups.  And  now, 
without  seeming  to  do  so,  or  at  least  trying  not  to  show  it,  he 
was  anxiously  listening,  and  fancied  that  the  murmur  con- 
tinued to  increase.  This  made  him  desirous  to  get  off;  but 
he  also  wished  to  take  Renzo  away  willingly  and  quietly;  since, 
if  he  had  declared  war  against  him,  he  could  not  have  been 
sure,  on  reaching  the  street,  of  not  finding  three  to  one  against 
him.  He,  therefore,  winked  at  the  bailiffs  to  have  patience, 
and  not  to  irritate  the  youth,  while  he  also  endeavoured  to 
soothe  him  with  fair  words.  Renzo  busied  himself,  while 
dressing  as  quickly  as  possible,  in  recalling  the  confused  re- 
membrances of  the  day  before,  and  at  last  conjectured,  with 


THE   BETROTHED  225 

tolerable  certainty,  that  the  proclamation,  and  the  name  and 
surname,  must  be  the  cause  of  this  disagreeable  occurrence; 
but  how  ever  did  this  fellow  know  his  name?  And  what  on 
earth  could  have  happened  that  night,  for  justice  to  have 
gained  such  confidence  as  to  come  and  lay  hands  on  one  of 
those  honest  youths  who,  only  the  day  before,  had  such  a  voice 
in  the  assembly,  and  who  could  not  all  be  asleep  now?  for  he 
also  observed  the  increasing  bustle  in  the  street.  He  looked 
at  the  countenance  of  the  notary,  and  there  perceived  the 
irresolution  which  he  vainly  endeavoured  to  conceal.  At  last, 
as  well  to  satisfy  his  conjectures,  and  sound  the  officers,  as  to 
gain  time,  and  even  attempt  a  blow,  he  said:  ''  I  understand 
well  enough  the  origin  of  all  this;  it  is  all  from  love  of 
name  and  surname.  Last  night  I  certainly  was  a  little  mud- 
dled: these  landlords  have  sometimes  very  treacherous  wines; 
and  sometimes,  as  I  say,  you  know,  when  wine  passes  through 
the  medium  of  words,  it  will  have  its  say  too.  But  if  this  is  all, 
I  am  now  ready  to  give  you  every  satisfaction;  and,  besides, 
you  know  my  name  already.     Who  on  earth  told  you  it?  " 

''Bravo,  my  boy,  bravo!"  replied  the  notary,  coaxingly; 
*'  I  see  you've  some  sense;  and  believe  me,  who  am  in  the  busi- 
ness, that  you're  wiser  than  most.  It  is  the  best  way  of  get- 
ting out  of  the  difficulty  quickly  and  easily;  and  with  such 
good  dispositions,  in  two  words  you  will  be  dismissed  and  set 
at  liberty.  But  I,  do  you  see,  my  good  fellow,  have  my  hands 
tied;  I  can  not  release  you,  as  I  should  like  to  do.  Come,  be 
quick,  and  come  along  with  a  good  heart;  for  when  they  see 
who  you  are  ....  and  then  I  will  tell  ....  Leave  it  to 
me  ....  Enough;  be  quick,  my  good  fellow." 

"Ah!  you  can  not!  I  understand,"  said  Renzo;  and  he 
continued  to  dress  himself,  repulsing,  by  signs,  the  intimations 
of  the  bailiffs,  that  they  would  carry  him  ofif  if  he  were  not  very 
expeditious. 

"  Shall  we  pass  by  the  square  of  the  cathedral? "  asked  he. 

"  Wherever  you  like ;  the  shortest  way,  to  set  you  the  soon- 
er at  liberty,"  said  the  notary,  vexed  in  his  heart,  that  he  must 
let  this  mysterious  inquiry  of  Renzo's  pass,  which  might  have 
served  as  the  subject  for  a  hundred  interrogatives.  *'  When 
one  is  born  to  be  unfortunate!  "  thought  he.  "  Just  see;  a  fel- 
low falls  into  my  hands,  who,  plainly  enough,  likes  nothing 
better  than  to  talk;  and  if  he  could  have  a  little  time,  he  would 
confess  all  one  wants,  without  the  aid  of  a  rope — extra  fonnam, 
to  speak  academically, in  the  way  of  friendly  chit-chat;  the  very 
man  to  take  to  prison  ready  examined,  without  his  being  at  all 
aware  of  it;  and  he  must  just  fall  into  my  hands  at  this  unfor- 
15 


226  MANZONI 

tunate  moment.  Well!  there's  no  help  for  it,"  he  continued, 
listening  attentively,  and  tossing  his  head  backward,  "  there's 
no  remedy;  it's  likely  to  be  a  worse  day  than  yesterday." 
What  gave  rise  to  this  thought  was  an  extraordinary  noise  he 
heard  in  the  street,  and  he  could  not  resist  opening  the  window 
to  take  a  peep  at  it.  He  saw  that  it  was  a  group  of  citizens, 
who,  on  being  required  by  a  patrol  of  soldiers  to  disperse,  had 
at  first  given  angry  words  in  reply,  and  had  finally  separated  in 
murmuring  dissatisfaction;  and,  what  appeared  to  the  notary 
a  fatal  sign,  the  soldiers  behaved  to  them  with  much  civility. 
Having  closed  the  window,  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  perplex- 
ity, whether  he  should  finish  his  undertaking,  or  leave  Renzo 
in  the  care  of  the  two  bailiffs,  while  he  ran  to  the  high-sheriff 
to  give  him  an  account  of  his  difficulty.  "  But,"  thought  he, 
directly,  ''  they'll  set  me  down  for  a  coward,  a  base  rascal,  who 
ought  to  execute  orders.  We  are  in  the  ball-room,  and  we 
must  dance.    Curse  the  throng!    What  a  miserable  business!  " 

Renzo  now  stood  between  the  two  satellites,  having  one  on 
each  side;  the  notary  beckoned  to  them  not  to  use  too  much 
force,  and  said  to  him,  "  Courage,  like  a  good  fellow;  let  us  be 
oflf,  and  make  haste." 

Renzo,  however,  was  feeling,  looking,  thinking.  He  was 
now  entirely  dressed,  excepting  his  jacket,  which  he  held  in 
one  hand,  and  feeling  with  the  other  in  his  pockets:  ''  Oho!  " 
said  he,  looking  at  the  notary  with  a  very  significant  expres- 
sion; "here  there  were  some  pence,  and  a  letter,  my  good 
sir!" 

"  Everything  shall  be  punctually  restored  to  you,"  said  the 
notary,  **  when  these  few  formalities  are  properly  executed. 
Let  us  go,  let  us  go." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Renzo,  shaking  his  head,  "  that  won't 
do ;  I  want  my  money,  my  good  sir.  I  will  give  an  account  of 
my  doings;  but  I  want  my  money." 

"  I'll  show  you  that  I  trust  you;  here,  and  be  quick,"  said 
the  notary,  drawing  out  of  his  bosom  the  sequestered  articles, 
and  handing  them  to  Renzo  with  a  sigh.  Renzo  received 
them,  and  put  them  into  his  pocket,  muttering  between  his 
teeth:  "Stand  off!  you've  associated  so  much  with  thieves, 
that  you've  learnt  a  little  of  their  business."  The  bailiffs 
could  no  longer  restrain  their  impatience,  but  the  notary 
curbed  them  with  a  glance,  saying  to  himself:  "  If  you  succeed 
in  setting  foot  within  that  threshold,  you  shall  pay  for  this  with 
interest,  that  you  will." 

While  Renzo  was  putting  on  his  jacket,  and  taking  up  his 
hat,  the  notary  beckoned  to  one  of  the  bailiffs  to  lead  the  way 


MILAN  CATHEDRAL, 
Photogravure  from. a  photograph. 


-— *ss^. 


i  /  he  continued, 

listenin:  backward,  "  there's 

' '.y." 

.    ;..-::.„,   ..^..^  he 

opening  the  window 

;p  of  citizens, 

disperse,  had 

y  separated  in 

•eared  to  the  notary 

with  much  civihty. 

moment  in  perplex- 

i\  his  Ui  ,  or  leave  Renzo 

^'  -  '^'    sheriff 

•ht  he, 

11  for  a  -  ho 

:id  we 

.,..     ,.  ness!" 

1  the  t  .    )ne  on 

ut  to  use  too  much 

..^^uod  f^ii— •  ^'-  '-  i-> 

^^^*^*^^  Qg.     He  was 

h  he  held  in 

ets:  "Oho!" 

/  significant  expres- 

and  a  letter,  my  good 

."  said  the 
arc  pi  ocuted. 

>n't 
Account  of 

I  be  quick,"  said 
the  noic  aestered  articles, 

n"  '   '-  .;i.     Renzo  received 

t  ittering  between  his 

teeth:  'M:i  so  much  with  thieves, 

"        you\r  •         "     The   '     '  "^ 

1   no   .     ^^  t   the   - 

ed  them  with  you  succeed 

,  for  this  with 

e  Ren  n\d  taking  up  his 

lilts  to  lead  the  way 


THE   BETROTHED  227 

down-stairs;  the  prisoner  came  next  behind  him,  then  the 
other  kind  friend,  and  he  himself  brought  up  the  rear.  On 
reaching  the  kitchen,  and  while  Renzo  was  saying,  ''  And  this 
blessed  landlord,  where  is  he  fled  to?  "  the  notary  made  a  sign 
to  the  two  police-officers,  who,  seizing  each  a  hand,  proceeded 
hastily  to  secure  his  wrists  with  certain  instruments,  called,  in 
the  hypocritical  figures  of  euphemism,  ruMes — in  plain  lan- 
guage, handcuffs.  These  consisted — we  are  sorry  that  we  are 
obliged  to  descend  to  particulars  unworthy  of  historical  grav- 
ity, but  perspicuity  requires  it — they  consisted  of  a  small  cord, 
a  little  longer  than  the  usual  size  of  a  wrist,  having  at  the  ends 
two  little  bits  of  wood — two  tallies,  so  to  say — two  small 
straight  pegs.  The  cord  encircled  the  wrist  of  the  patient; 
the  pieces  of  wood,  passed  through  the  middle  and  third  fin- 
gers, were  shut  up  in  the  hand  of  the  captor,  so  that  by  twisting 
them,  he  could  tighten  the  bandage  at  pleasure;  and  thus  he 
possessed  means,  not  only  of  securing  his  prisoner,  but  also 
of  torturing  the  refractory;  to  do  which  more  effectually,  the 
cord  was  full  of  knots. 

Renzo  struggled,  and  cried,  "  What  treachery  is  this?  To 
an  honest  man !...." 

But  the  notary,  who  had  fair  words  at  hand  on  every  dis- 
agreeable occasion,  replied:  "  Have  patience,  they  only  do 
their  duty.  What  would  you  have?  They  are  only  formali- 
ties; and  we  can't  always  treat  people  as  we  would  wish.  If 
we  don't  do  as  we're  bid,  it  will  fare  badly  with  us,  and  worse 
with  you.     Have  patience!  " 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  two  bailiffs  gave  a  sudden 
twitch  at  the  handcuffs.  Renzo  bore  it  as  a  restive  horse  bears 
the  jerk  of  a  severe  bit,  and  exclaimed,  "  Patience!  " 

"Brave  youth!  "  said  the  notary;  *'  this  is  the  best  way  of 
getting  off  well.  What  would  you  have?  It  is  an  annoyance, 
I  know;  but  if  you  behave  well,  you'll  very  soon  be  rid  of  it. 
And,  since  I  see  that  you're  well-disposed,  and  I  feel  inclined 
to  help  you,  I'll  give  you  another  piece  of  advice  for  your  good. 
You  may  believe  me,  for  I'm  practised  in  these  matters — go 
straightforward,  without  looking  about,  or  attracting  observa- 
tion; so  no  one  will  notice  you,  no  one  will  observe  what  you 
are,  and  you  will  preserve  your  honour.  An  hour  hence  you 
will  be  set  at  liberty.  There  is  so  much  to  be  done,  that  they, 
too,  will  be  in  a  hurry  to  have  done  with  you;  and,  besides,  I 
will  speak  ....  You  shall  go  about  your  own  business,  and 
nobody  will  know  that  you've  been  in  the  hands  of  justice. 
And  you,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the  two  bailiffs,  with  a 
severe  countenance,  "take  care  you  don't  do  him  any  harm; 


228  MANZONI 

for  I  will  protect  him.  You  are  obliged  to  do  your  duty;  but 
remember  that  this  is  an  honest  man,  a  civil  youth,  who  will 
shortly  be  at  liberty,  and  who  has  some  regard  for  his  hon- 
our. Let  nothing  appear  but  that  you  are  three  honest  men 
walking  together."  And,  in  an  imperative  tone,  and  with  a 
threatening  look,  he  concluded:  "  You  understand  me?  "  He 
then  turned  to  Renzo,  his  brow  smoothed,  and  his  face  ren- 
dered, in  an  instant,  more  cheerful  and  pleasant,  which  seemed 
to  say,  "  What  capital  friends  we  are!  "  and  whispered  to  him 
again:  "  Be  careful;  do  as  I  tell  you;  don't  look  about  you; 
trust  one  who  wishes  you  well;  and  now  let  us  go."  And  the 
convoy  moved  off. 

Renzo,  however,  believed  none  of  these  fine  words;  nor 
that  the  notary  wished  him  well  more  than  the  bailififs,  nor  that 
he  was  so  mighty  anxious  about  his  reputation,  nor  that  he  had 
any  intention  of  helping  him;  not  a  word  of  all  this  did  he  be- 
lieve; he  understood  well  enough  that  the  good  man,  fearing 
some  favourable  opportunity  for  making  his  escape  might 
present  itself  in  the  way,  laid  before  him  all  these  flattering  in- 
ducements, to  divert  him  from  watching  for  and  profiting  by 
it.  So  that  all  these  exhortations  served  no  other  purpose  than 
to  determine  Renzo  more  decidedly  on  a  course  which  he  had 
distinctly  meditated,  viz.,  to  act  exactly  contrary  to  them. 

Let  no  one  hereby  conclude  that  the  notary  was  an  inexpe- 
rienced novice  in  his  trade,  for  he  will  be  much  deceived.  Our 
historian,  w^ho  seems  to  have  been  among  his  friends,  says  that 
he  was  a  matriculated  knave ;  but  at  this  moment  his  mind  was 
greatly  agitated.  With  a  calm  mind,  I  venture  to  say,  he 
would  have  laughed  at  any  one  who,  to  induce  others  to  do 
something  which  he  himself  mistrusted,  would  have  gone 
about  to  suggest  and  inculcate  it  so  eagerly,  under  the  miser- 
able pretence  of  giving  him  the  disinterested  advice  of  a  friend. 
But  it  is  a  general  tendency  of  mankind,  when  they  are  agi- 
tated and  perplexed,  and  discern  w^hat  another  can  do  to  re- 
lieve them  from  their  perplexities,  to  implore  it  of  him  eagerly 
and  perseveringly,  and  under  all  kinds  of  pretexts;  and  when 
villains  are  agitated  and  perplexed,  they  also  fall  under  this 
common  rule.  Hence  it  is  that,  in  similar  circumstances,  they 
generally  make  so  poor  a  figure.  Those  masterly  inventions, 
those  cunning  subtleties,  by  which  they  are  accustomed  to  con- 
quer, which  have  become  to  them  almost  a  second  nature,  and 
which,  put  in  operation  at  the  proper  time,  and  conducted 
w^ith  the  necessary  tranquillity  and  serenity  of  mind,  strike  a 
blow  so  surely  and  secretly,  and,  discovered  even  after  the  suc- 
cess, receive  such  universal  applause;  these,  when  their  un- 


THE   BETROTHED  229 

lucky  employers  are  in  trouble,  are  hastily  and  tumultuously 
made  use  of,  without  either  judgment  or  dexterity;  so  that  a 
third  person,  who  observes  them  labouring  and  busying  them- 
selves in  this  manner,  is  moved  to  compassion  or  provoked  to 
laughter;  and  those  whom  they  attempt  to  impose  upon, 
though  less  crafty  than  themselves,  easily  perceive  the  game 
they  are  playing,  and  gain  light  from  their  artifices,  which  may 
be  turned  against  them.  It  can  never,  therefore,  be  sufficient- 
ly inculcated  upon  knaves  by  profession,  always  to  maintain 
their  sang  froid,  or,  what  is  better  still,  never  to  get  themselves 
into  perplexing  circumstances. 

No  sooner,  therefore,  were  they  in  the  street,  than  Renzo 
began  to  look  eagerly  in  every  direction,  throwing  himself 
about,  bending  his  head  forward,  and  listening  attentively. 
There  was,  however,  no  extraordinary  concourse ;  and  though 
a  certain  air  of  sedition  might  easily  be  discerned  on  the 
face  of  more  than  one  passer-by,  yet  every  one  went  straight 
on  his  way;  and  of  sedition,  properly  speaking,  there  was 
none. 

"  Prudence!  prudence!  "  murmured  the  notary,  behind  his 
back;  *' your  honour,  your  reputation,  my  good  fellow!" 
But  when  Renzo,  listening  to  three  men  who  were  approaching 
with  excited  looks,  heard  them  speaking  of  a  bake-house,  con- 
cealed flour,  and  justice,  he  began  to  make  signs  at  them  by 
his  looks,  and  to  cough  in  such  a  way  as  indicated  anything 
but  a  cold.  These  looked  more  attentively  at  the  convoy,  and 
then  stopped;  others  who  came  up  stopped  also;  others  who 
had  passed  by,  turned  round  on  hearing  the  noise,  and  re- 
tracing their  steps,  joined  the  party. 

"Take  care  of  yourself;  prudence,  my  lad;  it  is  worse  for 
you,  you  see;  don't  spoil  all:  honour,  reputation,"  whispered 
the  notary.  Renzo  was  still  more  intractable.  The  bailiffs, 
after  consulting  with  each  other  by  a  look,  and  thinking  they 
were  doing  quite  right  (everybody  is  liable  to  err),  again  twist- 
ed the  manacles. 

"Ah!  ah!  ah!"  cried  the  tortured  victim:  the  bystanders 
gathered  close  round  at  the  cry;  others  arrived  from  every 
part  of  the  street,  and  the  convoy  came  to  a  stand.  "  He  is  a 
dissolute  fellow,"  whispered  the  notary  to  those  who  had  gath- 
ered around;  "a  thief  taken  in  the  act!  Draw  back  and 
make  way  for  justice!  "  But  Renzo,  seeing  this  was  the  mo- 
ment— seeing  the  bailiffs  turn  white,  or  at  least  pale.  "  If  I 
don't  help  myself  now,"  thought  he,  "  it's  my  own  fault.'*  And 
he  immediately  called  out:  "  My  friends!  they  are  carrying  me 
off,  because  yesterday  I  shouted  'Bread  and  justice!'    I've 


230  MANZONI 

done  nothing;  I  am  an  honest  man!  help  me;  don't  abandon 
me,  my  friends !  " 

A  murmur  of  approbation,  followed  by  more  explicit  cries 
in  his  favour,  arose  in  reply;  the  bailiffs  first  commanded,  then 
asked,  then  begged  the  nearest  to  make  way  and  let  them  pass ; 
but  the  crowd  only  continued  still  more  to  trample  and  push 
forward.  The  bailiffs,  seeing  their  danger,  let  go  of  the  man- 
acles, and  only  endeavoured  to  lose  themselves  in  the  throng, 
so  as  to  escape  without  observation.  The  notary  earnestly 
longed  to  do  the  same ;  but  this  was  more  difficult,  on  account 
of  his  black  cloak.  The  poor  man,  pale  in  face  and  dismayed 
in  heart,  tried  to  make  himself  as  diminutive  as  possible,  and 
writhed  his  body  about  so  as  to  slip  away  through  the  crowd; 
but  he  could  not  raise  his  eyes,  without  seeing  a  storm  gather- 
ing against  him.  He  tried  every  method  of  appearing  a 
stranger  who,  passing  there  by  chance,  had  found  himself  en- 
tangled in  the  crowd,  like  a  bit  of  straw  in  the  ice;  and  en- 
countering a  man  face  to  face,  who  looked  at  him  fixedly  with 
a  more  terrible  countenance  than  the  others,  he,  composing  his 
face  to  a  smile,  with  a  look  of  great  simplicity,  demanded, 
"What  is  all  this  stir?" 

"Ugh!  you  ugly  raven!"  replied  the  man.  "A  raven! 
a  raven!"  resounded  around.  Pushes  were  added  to  cries; 
so  that,  in  short,  partly  with  his  own  legs,  partly  by  the  elbows 
of  others,  he  obtained  what  lay  nearest  to  his  heart  at  that  mo- 
ment, a  safe  exit  from  the  pressing  multitude. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

^^  1"^ SCAPE,  escape,  my  good  fellow!  here  is  a  convent; 
KH  there  is  a  church ;  this  way,  that  way,"  was  heard  by 
I  V  Renzo  on  every  side.  As  to  escaping,  the  reader 
may  judge  whether  he  would  have  need  of  advice  on 
this  head.  From  the  first  moment  that  the  hope  of  extricating 
himself  from  the  talons  of  the  police  had  crossed  his  mind,  he 
had  begun  to  form  his  plans,  and  resolved,  if  he  succeeded 
in  this  one,  to  flee  without  delay,  not  only  out  of  the  city,  but 
also  out  of  the  duchy  of  Milan.  '*  For,"  thought  he,  '*  they 
have  my  name  on  their  black  books,  however  on  earth  they've 
got  it;  and  with  my  name  and  surname,  they  can  seize  me 
whenever  they  like."  As  to  an  asylum,  he  would  not  willingly 
have  recourse  to  one,  unless,  indeed,  he  were  reduced  to  ex- 
tremity. ''  For,  if  I  can  be  a  bird  of  the  woods,"  thought  he 
again,  *'  I  won't  be  a  bird  of  the  cage."  He  had  therefore  de- 
signed as  his  limit  and  place  of  refuge,  a  village  in  the  territory 
of  Bergamo,  where  his  cousin  Bortolo  resided,  who,  the  reader 
may  remember,  had  frequently  solicited  Renzo  to  remove 
thither.  But  now  the  point  was  how  to  find  his  way  there. 
Left  in  an  unknown  part  of  a  city  almost  equally  unknown, 
Renzo  could  not  even  tell  by  which  gate  he  should  pass  to  go 
to  Bergamo;  and  when  he  had  learnt  this,  he  still  did  not  know 
the  way  to  the  gate.  He  stood  for  a  moment  in  doubt  whether 
to  ask  direction  of  his  liberators;  but  as,  in  the  short  time  he 
had  had  for  reflection  on  his  circumstances,  many  strong  sus- 
picions had  crossed  his  mind  of  that  obliging  sword-cutler,  the 
father  of  four  children,  he  was  not  much  inclined  to  reveal  his 
intentions  to  a  large  crowd,  where  there  might  be  others  of  the 
same  stamp;  he  quickly  decided,  therefore,  to  get  away  from 
that  neighbourhood  as  fast  as  he  could;  and  he  might  after- 
ward ask  his  way  in  a  part  where  nobody  would  know  who  he 
was,  or  why  he  asked  it.  Merely  saying,  then,  to  his  deliverers, 
"Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  friends;  blessings  on  you!  "  and 
escaping  through  the  space  that  was  immediately  cleared  for 

231 


232  MANZONI 

him,  he  took  to  his  heels,  and  off  he  went,  up  one  little  street, 
and  down  another,  running  for  some  time  without  knowing 
whither.  When  he  thought  he  was  far  enough  off,  he  slack- 
ened his  pace,  so  as  not  to  excite  suspicion,  and  began  looking 
round  to  choose  some  person  of  whom  he  could  make  in- 
quiries— some  face  that  would  inspire  confidence.  But  here, 
also,  there  was  need  of  caution.  The  inquiry  in  itself  was  sus- 
picious; time  pressed;  the  bailiffs,  immediately  on  making 
their  escape  from  this  rencontre,  would,  undoubtedly,  renew 
their  search  for  the  fugitive;  the  rumour  of  his  flight  might 
even  have  reached  hither:  and  in  such  a  concourse,  Renzo 
might  carefully  scrutinize  a  dozen  physiognomies  before  he 
could  meet  with  a  countenance  that  seemed  likely  to  suit  his 
purpose.  That  fat  fellow,  standing  at  the  door  of  his  shop, 
with  legs  extended,  and  his  hands  behind  his  back,  the 
prominent  corpulency  of  his  person  projecting  beyond  the 
doorway,  and  supporting  his  great  double  chin;  who,  from 
mere  idleness,  was  employing  himself  in  alternately  raising  his 
tremendous  bulk  upon  his  toes,  and  letting  it  sink  again  upon 
his  heels — he  looked  too  much  like  an  inquisitive  gossip,  who 
would  have  returned  interrogatories  instead  of  replies.  That 
other,  advancing  with  fixed  eyes  and  a  drooping  lip,  instead  of 
being  able  expeditiously  and  satisfactorily  to  direct  another  in 
his  way,  scarcely  seemed  to  know  his  own.  That  tall,  stout 
boy,  who,  to  say  the  truth,  certainly  looked  intelligent  enough, 
appeared  also  rather  maliciously  inclined,  and  probably  would 
have  taken  a  mischievous  delight  in  sending  a  poor  stranger 
exactly  the  opposite  way  to  the  one  he  was  inquiring  after.  So 
true  is  it  that,  to  a  man  in  perplexity,  almost  everything  seems 
to  be  a  new  perplexity!  At  last,  fixing  his  eyes  on  one  who 
was  approaching  in  evident  haste,  he  thought  that  he,  having 
probably  some  pressing  business  in  hand,  would  give  an  im- 
mediate and  direct  answer,  to  get  rid  of  him;  and  hearing  him 
talking  to  himself,  he  deemed  that  he  must  be  an  undesigning 
person.  He,  therefore,  accosted  him  with  the  question,  "  Will 
you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me,  sir,  which  direction  I  should 
take  to  go  to  Bergamo?  " 

"  To  go  to  Bergamo?     The  Porta  Orientale." 
"  Thank  you,  sir:  and  to  the  Porta  Orientale?  " 
"Take  this  street  to  the  left;  you  will  come  out  into  the 
square  of  the  cathedral ;  then  .  .  .  ." 

"  That  will  do,  sir;  I  know  the  rest.  Heaven  reward  you." 
And  on  he  went  by  the  way  that  had  been  pointed  out  to  him. 
His  director  looked  after  him  for  a  moment,  and  comparing  in 
his  mind  his  way  of  walking,  with  the  inquiry,  thought  within 


THE   BETROTHED  233 

himself,  "  Either  he  is  after  somebody,  or  somebody  is  after 
him." 

Renzo  reached  the  square  of  the  cathedral,  crossed  it, 
passed  by  a  heap  of  cinders  and  extinguished  combustibles, 
and  recognized  the  relics  of  the  bonfire  at  which  he  had  assisted 
the  day  before;  he  then  passed  along  the  flight  of  steps  lead- 
ing up  to  the  cathedral,  and  saw  again  the  bake-house  of  the 
Crutches  half  demolished,  and  guarded  by  soldiers;  still  he 
proceeded  onward,  and,  by  the  street  which  he  had  already 
traversed  wdth  the  crowd,  arrived  in  front  of  the  convent  of 
the  Capuchins,  where,  glancing  at  the  square,  and  the  church- 
door,  he  said  to  himself  with  a  deep  sigh :  ''  That  friar  yester- 
day gave  me  good  advice,  when  he  bid  me  go  wait  in  the 
church,  and  employ  myself  profitably  there." 

Here  he  stopped  a  moment  to  reconnoitre  the  gate  through 
which  he  had  to  pass;  and  seeing,  even  at  that  distance,  many 
soldiers  on  guard,  his  imagination  also  being  rather  over- 
strained (one  must  pity  him;  for  he  had  had  enough  to  unset- 
tle it),  he  felt  a  kind  of  repugnance  at  encountering  the  passage. 
Here  he  was,  with  a  place  of  refuge  close  at  hand,  where,  with 
the  letter  of  recommendation,  he  would  have  been  well  re- 
ceived; and  he  felt  strongly  tempted  to  enter  it.  But  he  quick- 
ly summoned  up  his  courage,  and  thought,  "  A  bird  of  the 
woods,  as  long  as  I  can.  Who  knows  me?  Certainly  the 
bailiffs  can  not  have  divided  themselves  into  enough  pieces  to 
come  and  watch  for  me  at  every  gate."  He  looked  behind  him 
to  see  if  they  were  coming  in  that  direction,  and  saw  neither 
them,  nor  any  one  who  seemed  to  be  taking  notice  of  him. 
He,  therefore,  set  off  again,  slackened  the  pace  of  those  un- 
fortunate legs  which,  with  their  own  good  will,  would  have 
kept  constantly  on  the  run,  when  it  was  much  better  only  to 
walk;  and,  proceeding  leisurely  along,  whistling  in  an  under- 
tone, he  arrived  at  the  gate.  Just  at  the  entrance  there  was  a 
party  of  police-officers,  together  with  a  reinforcement  of 
Spanish  soldiers;  but  these  all  had  their  attention  directed  to 
the  outside,  to  forbid  entrance  to  such  as,  hearing  the  news  of 
an  insurrection,  would  flock  thither  like  vultures  to  a  deserted 
field  of  battle;  so  that  Renzo,  quietly  walking  on,  with  his  eyes 
bent  to  the  ground,  and  with  a  gait  between  that  of  a  traveller 
and  a  common  passenger,  passed  the  threshold  without  any 
one  speaking  a  word  to  him :  but  his  heart  beat  violently.  See- 
ing a  little  street  to  the  right,  he  took  that  way  to  avoid  the 
high  road,  and  continued  his  course  for  some  time  before  he 
ventured  to  look  round. 

On  he  went;  he  came  to  cottages  and  villages,  which  he 


234 


MANZONI 


passed  without  asking  their  names:  he  felt  certain  of  getting 
away  from  Milan,  and  hoped  he  was  going  toward  Bergamo, 
and  this  was  enough  for  him  at  present.  From  time  to  time 
he  kept  glancing  behind  him,  while  walking  onward,  occasion- 
ally looking  at  and  rubbing  one  or  other  of  his  wrists,  which 
were  still  a  little  benumbed,  and  marked  with  a  red  line  from 
the  pressure  of  the  manacles.  His  thoughts  were,  as  every 
one  may  imagine,  a  confused  medley  of  repentance,  disputes, 
disquietude,  revenge,  and  other  more  tender  feelings;  it  was  a 
wearying  endeavour  to  recall  what  he  had  said  and  done  the 
night  before,  to  unravel  the  mysterious  part  of  his  mournful 
adventures,  and,  above  all,  how  they  had  managed  to  discover 
his  name.  His  suspicions  naturally  fell  on  the  sword-cutler, 
to  whom  he  remembered  having  spoken  very  frankly.  And 
retracing  the  way  in  which  he  had  drawn  him  into  conversa- 
tion, together  with  his  whole  behaviour,  and  those  profilers 
which  always  ended  in  wishing  to  know  something  about  him, 
his  suspicions  were  changed  almost  to  certainty.  He  had,  be- 
sides, some  faint  recollection  of  continuing  to  chatter  after 
the  departure  of  the  cutler;  but  with  whom?  guess  it,  ye 
crickets;  of  what?  his  memory,  spite  of  his  efiforts,  could  not 
tell  him  this :  it  could  only  remind  him  that  he  had  not  been  at 
all  himself  that  evening.  The  poor  fellow  was  lost  in  these 
speculations:  he  was  like  a  man  who  has  afftxed  his  signature 
to  a  number  of  blank  formulae,  and  committed  them  to  the 
care  of  one  he  esteemed  honest  and  honourable,  and  hav- 
ing discovered  him  to  be  a  shuffling  meddler,  wishes  to  ascer- 
tain the  state  of  his  affairs.  What  can  he  discover?  It  is  a 
chaos.  Another  painful  speculation  was  how  to  form  some 
design  for  the  future  that  would  not  be  a  merely  aerial  project, 
or  at  least  a  melancholy  one. 

By  and  by,  however,  he  became  still  more  anxious  about 
finding  his  way;  and  after  walking  for  some  distance  at  a  ven- 
ture, he  saw  the  necessity  of  making  some  inquiries.  Yet  he 
felt  particularly  reluctant  to  utter  the  word  "  Bergamo,"  as  if 
there  were  something  suspicious  or  dangerous  in  the  name, 
and  could  not  bring  himself  to  pronounce  it.  He  resolved, 
however,  to  ask  direction,  as  he  had  before  done  at  Milan,  of 
the  first  passenger  whose  countenance  suited  his  fancy,  and  he 
shortly  met  with  one. 

"  You  are  out  of  the  road,"  replied  his  guide;  and  having 
thought  a  moment,  he  pointed  out  to  him,  partly  by  words  and 
partly  by  gestures,  the  way  he  should  take  to  regain  the  high 
road.  Renzo  thanked  him  for  his  directions,  and  pretended  to 
follow  them,  by  actually  taking  the  way  he  had  indicated,  w^ith 


THE   BETROTHED  235 

the  intention  of  almost  reaching  the  public  road,  and  then, 
without  losing  sight  of  it,  to  keep  parallel  with  its  course  as  far 
as  possible,  but  not  to  set  foot  within  it.  The  design  was  easier 
to  conceive  than  to  efifect,  and  the  result  was,  that,  by  going 
thus  from  right  to  left  in  a  zigzag  course,  partly  following  the 
directions  he  obtained  by  the  way,  partly  correcting  them  by 
his  own  judgment,  and  adapting  them  to  his  intentions,  and 
partly  allowing  himself  to  be  guided  by  the  lanes  he  traversed, 
our  fugitive  had  walked  perhaps  twelve  miles,  when  he  was  not 
more  than  six  distant  from  Milan;  and  as  to  Bergamo,  it  was 
a  great  chance  if  he  were  not  going  away  from  it.  He  began 
at  last  to  perceive  that  by  this  method  he  would  never  come 
to  an  end,  and  determined  to  find  out  some  remedy.  The  plan 
that  occurred  to  his  mind  was  to  get  the  name  of  some  village 
bordering  on  the  confines,  which  he  could  reach  by  the  neigh- 
bouring roads:  and  by  asking  his  way  thither,  he  could  col- 
lect information,  without  leaving  behind  him  the  name  of  Ber- 
gamo, which  seemed  to  him  to  savour  so  strongly  of  flight, 
escape,  and  crime. 

While  ruminating  on  the  best  way  of  obtaining  these  in- 
structions without  exciting  suspicion,  he  saw  a  bush  hanging 
over  the  door  of  a  solitary  cottage  just  outside  a  little  vihage. 
He  had  for  some  time  felt  the  need  of  recruiting  his  strength, 
and  thinking  that  this  would  be  the  place  to  serve  two  purposes 
at  once,  he  entered.  There  was  no  one  within  but  an  old 
woman,  with  her  distaff  at  her  side,  and  the  spindle  in  her  hand. 
He  asked  for  something  to  eat,  and  was  offered  a  little  strac- 
chino  and  some  good  wine;  he  gladly  accepted  the  food,  but 
excused  himself  from  taking  any  wine,  feeling  quite  an  abhor- 
rence of  it,  after  the  errors  it  had  made  him  guilty  of  the  night 
before;  and  then  sat  down,  begging  the  old  woman  to  make 
haste.  She  served  up  his  meal  in  a  moment,  and  then  began 
to  tease  her  customer  with  inquiries,  both  about  himself  and 
the  grand  doings  at  Milan,  the  report  of  which  had  already 
reached  here.  Renzo  not  only  contrived  to  parry  and  elude 
her  inquiries  with  much  dexterity,  but  even  profited  by  the 
difficulty,  and  made  the  curiosity  of  the  old  woman  subser- 
vient to  his  intentions,  when  she  asked  him  where  he  was 
going  to. 

"  I  have  to  go  to  many  places,"  replied  he:  "  and  if  I  can 
find  a  moment  of  time,  I  want  to  pass  a  little  while  at  that  vil- 
lage, rather  a  large  one,  on  the  road  to  Bergamo,  near  the  bor- 
der, but  in  the  territory  of  Milan  .  .  .  What  do  they  call  it?  " 
— There  must  be  one  there,  surely — thought  he,  in  the  mean 
while. 


236 


MANZONI 


"  Gorgonzola,  you  mean,"  replied  the  old  woman. 

*'  Gorgonzola!  "  repeated  Renzo,  as  if  to  imprint  the  word 
better  on  his  memory.  "Is  it  very  far  from  here?"  re- 
sumed he. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly;  it  may  be  ten  or  twelve  miles.  If 
one  of  my  sons  were  here,  he  could  tell  you." 

''  And  do  you  think  I  can  go  by  these  pleasant  lanes  with- 
out taking  the  high  road?  There  is  such  a  dust  there!  such  a 
shocking  dust!     It  is  so  long  since  it  rained!  " 

"I  fancy  you  can:  you  can  ask  at  the  first  village  you 
come  to,  after  turning  to  the  right."     And  she  named  it. 

"  That's  well,"  said  Renzo;  and  rising,  he  took  in  his  hand 
a  piece  of  bread  remaining  from  his  scanty  meal,  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent quality  to  that  which  he  had  found  the  day  before  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross  of  San  Dionigi;  and  paying  the  reckoning, 
he  set  off  again,  following  the  road  to  the  right  hand.  By 
taking  care  not  to  wander  from  it  more  than  was  needful,  and 
with  the  name  of  Gorgonzola  in  his  mouth,  he  proceeded  from 
village  to  village,  until,  about  an  hour  before  sunset,  he  arrived 
there. 

During  his  walk,  he  had  resolved  to  make  another  stop 
here,  and  to  take  some  rather  more  substantial  refreshment. 
His  body  also  craved  a  little  rest;  but  rather  than  gratify  this 
desire,  Renzo  would  have  sunk  in  a  swoon  upon  the  ground. 
He  proposed  gaining  some  information  at  the  inn  about  the 
distance  of  the  Adda,  to  ascertain  dexterously  if  there  was  any 
cross-road  that  led  to  it,  and  to  set  off  again,  even  at  this  hour, 
immediately  after  his  repast.  Born  and  brought  up  at  the  sec- 
ond source,  so  to  say,  of  this  river,  he  had  often  heard  it  said 
that  at  a  certain  point,  and  for  some  considerable  distance,  it 
served  as  a  boundary  between  the  Milanese  and  Venetian 
states;  he  had  no  very  distinct  idea  of  where  this  boundary 
commenced,  or  how  far  it  extended;  but,  for  the  present,  his 
principal  object  was  to  get  beyond  it.  If  he  did  not  succeed  in 
reaching  it  that  evening,  he  resolved  to  walk  as  long  as  the 
night  and  his  strength  would  allow  him,  and  afterward  to 
wait  the  approaching  day  in  a  field,  or  a  wilderness,  or  where- 
ever  God  pleased,  provided  it  were  not  an  inn. 

After  walking  a  few  paces  along  the  street  at  Gorgonzola, 
he  noticed  a  sign,  entered  the  inn,  and  on  the  landlord's  ad- 
vancing to  meet  him,  ordered  something  to  eat,  and  a  small 
measure  of  wine;  the  additional  miles  he  had  passed,  and  the 
time  of  day,  having  overcome  his  extreme  and  fanatical  hatred 
of  this  beverage.  "  I  must  beg  you  to  be  quick,"  added  he; 
"  for  I'm  obliged  to  go  on  my  way  again  very  soon."     This  he 


THE   BETROTHED 


237 


said  not  only  because  it  was  the  truth,  but  also  for  fear  the  host, 
imagining  that  he  was  going  to  pass  the  night  there,  should 
come  and  ask  him  his  name  and  surname,  and  where  he  came 
from,  and  on  what  business  ....  But  enough! 

The  landlord  replied  that  he  should  be  waited  upon  im- 
mediately; and  Renzo  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  table,  near 
the  door,  the  usual  place  of  the  bashful. 

Some  loungers  of  the  village  had  assembled  in  this  room, 
who,  after  having  argued  over,  and  discussed,  and  commented 
upon,  the  grand  news  from  Milan  of  the  preceding  day,  were 
now  longing  to  know  a  little  how  matters  were  going  on;  the 
more  so,  as  their  first  information  was  rather  fitted  to  irritate 
their  curiosity  than  to  satisfy  it;  a  sedition,  neither  subdued 
nor  triumphant;  suspended,  rather  than  terminated,  by  the  ap- 
proach of  night;  a  defective  thing;  the  conclusion  of  an  act, 
rather  than  of  a  drama.  One  of  these  detached  himself  from 
the  party,  and  seating  himself  by  the  new  comer,  asked  him  if 
he  came  from  Milan. 

"I?"  said  Renzo,  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  to  gain  time  for 
a  reply. 

"  You,  if  the  question  is  allowable." 

Renzo,  shaking  his  head,  compressing  his  lips,  and  utter- 
ing an  inarticulate  sound,  replied:  '*  Milan,  from  what  I  hear 
....  from  what  they  say  around  ....  is  not  exactly  a 
place  to  go  to  at  present,  unless  in  case  of  great  necessity." 

"  Does  the  uproar  continue,  then,  to-day?"  demanded  his 
inquisitive  companion  more  eagerly. 

"  I  must  have  been  there  to  know  that,"  said  Renzo. 

"  But  you — don't  you  come  from  Milan?  " 

"  I  come  from  Liscate,"  replied  the  youth,  promptly,  who, 
in  the  mean  while,  had  decided  upon  his  reply.  Strictly  speak- 
ing, he  had  come  from  there,  because  he  had  passed  it;  and  he 
had  learnt  the  name  from  a  traveller  on  the  road,  who  had 
mentioned  that  village  as  the  first  he  must  pass  on  his  way  to 
Gorgonzola. 

"Oh!"  said  his  friend,  in  that  tone  which  seems  to  say 
that  he  would  have  done  better  if  he  had  come  from  Milan. 
*'  And  at  Liscate,"  added  he,  ''  did  you  hear  nothing  about 
Milan?" 

"  There  may  very  likely  have  been  somebody  who  knew 
something  about  it,"  replied  the  mountaineer,  ''  but  I  heard 
nothing."  And  this  was  proffered  in  that  particular  manner 
which  seems  to  mean:  "  I've  finished."  The  querist  returned 
to  his  party,  and  a  moment  afterward  the  landlord  came  to  set 
out  his  meal. 


238 


MANZONI 


"  How  far  is  it  from  here  to  the  Adda?  "  asked  Renzo,  in 
an  under-tone,  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  half  asleep,  and  in  an 
indifferent  manner,  such  as  we  have  already  seen  him  assume 
on  some  other  occasions. 

"  To  the  Adda — to  cross  it?  "  said  the  host. 

"  That  is  ...  .  yes  ....  to  the  Adda." 

"  Do  you  want  to  cross  by  the  bridge  of  Cassano,  or  the 
Ferry  of  Canonica? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  where  ....  I  only  asked  from  curi- 
osity." 

"  Well,  I  mention  these,  because  they  are  the  places  gen- 
tlemen generally  choose,  and  people  who  can  give  an  account 
of  themselves." 

"  Very  well;  and  how  far  is  it?  " 

"  You  may  reckon  that  to  either  one  or  the  other,  it  is 
somewhere  about  six  miles,  more  or  less." 

"Six  miles!  I  didn't  know  that,"  said  Renzo.  "Well," 
resumed  he,  with  a  still  greater  air  of  indifference,  almost 
amounting  to  affectation,  "  well,  I  suppose  there  are  other 
places  for  crossing,  if  anybody  is  inclined  to  take  a  short  cut?  " 

"  There  are,  certainly,"  replied  the  landlord,  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  him  with  a  look  full  of  malicious  curiosity.  This  was 
enough  to  silence  all  the  other  inquiries  which  our  youth  had 
ready  on  his  lips.  He  drew  his  plate  before  him,  and,  looking 
at  the  small  measure  of  wine  which  the  landlord  had  set  down 
on  the  table,  said,  "  Is  the  wine  pure?  " 

"  As  gold,"  said  the  host;  "  ask  all  the  people  of  the  village 
and  neighbourhood,  for  they  know  it,  and,  besides,  you  can 
taste  yourself."  So  saying,  he  turned  toward  his  other  cus- 
tomers. 

"  Plasfue  on  these  landlords!"  exclaimed  Renzo  in  his 
heart;  "the  more  I  know  of  them,  the  worse  I  find  them." 
However,  he  began  to  eat  very  heartily,  listening  at  the  same 
time,  without  appearing  to  pay  any  attention,  to  see  what  he 
could  learn,  to  discover  what  was  the  general  impression  here 
about  the  great  event  in  which  he  had  had  no  little  share;  and, 
above  all,  to  ascertain  if,  among  these  talkers,  there  was  one 
honest  man,  of  whom  a  poor  fellow  might  venture  to  make  in- 
quiries, without  fear  of  getting  into  a  scrape,  and  being  forced 
to  talk  about  his  own  doings. 

"  But,"  said  one,  "  this  time,  it  seems  clear  the  Milanese 
wanted  to  bring  about  a  good  thing.  Well,  to-morrow,  at 
latest,  we  shall  know  something." 

"  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  go  to  Milan  this  morning,"  said  an- 
other. 


THE   BETROTHED 


239 


"  If  you  go  to-morrow,  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  a  third;  "  so 
will  I,"  said  another;  '*  and  I,"  said  another. 

"  .What  I  want  to  know,"  resumed  the  first,  "  is,  whether 
these  Milanese  gentlemen  will  think  of  us  poor  people  out  of 
the  city ;  or  if  they'll  only  get  good  laws  made  for  themselves. 
Do  you  know  how  they  do,  eh?  They  are  all  proud  citizens, 
every  one  for  himself;  and  we  strangers  mightn't  be  Chris- 
tians." 

*'  We've  mouths,  too,  either  to  eat,  or  to  give  our  own 
opinions,"  said  another,  with  a  voice  as  modest  as  the  propo- 
sition was  daring;  "  and  when  things  have  gone  a  little  fur- 
ther .  .  .  ."     But  he  did  not  think  fit  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  There's  corn  hidden,  not  only  at  Milan,"  another  was  be- 
ginning, with  a  dark  and  designing  countenance,  when  they 
heard  the  trampling  of  a  horse  approaching;  they  ran  to  the 
door,  and  having  discovered  who  it  was,  they  all  went  out  to 
meet  him.  It  was  a  Milanese  merchant,  who  generally  passed 
the  night  at  this  inn,  in  journeying  two  or  three  times  a  year 
to  Bergamo  on  business;  and  as  he  almost  always  found  the 
same  company  there,  they  were  all  his  acquaintances.  They 
now  crowded  around  him;  one  took  his  bridle,  another  his 
stirrup,  and  saluted  him  with,  "  Welcome." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Have  you  had  a  good  journey?  " 

"  Very  good;  and  how  are  you  all?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  pretty  well.     What  news  from  Milan?  " 

"Ah!  you  are  always  for  news,"  said  the  merchant,  dis- 
mounting, and  leaving  his  horse  in  the  care  of  a  boy.  "  And 
besides,"  continued  he,  entering  the  door  with  the  rest  of  the 
party,  '*  by  this  time  you  know  it,  perhaps,  better  than  I  do." 

"  I  assure  you  we  know  nothing,"  said  more  than  one,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"Is  it  possible?"  said  the  merchant.  "Then  you  shall 
hear  some  fine  ....  or  rather,  some  bad  news.  Hey,  land- 
lord, is  my  usual  bed  at  liberty?  Very  well;  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  my  usual  meal;  be  quick,  for  I  must  go  to  bed  early,  and 
set  oflf  to-morrow  morning  very  early,  so  as  to  get  to  Bergamo 
by  dinner-time.  And  you,"  continued  he,  sitting  down  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  table  to  where  Renzo  was  seated,  silently 
but  attentively  listening,  "  you  don't  know  about  all  the  dia- 
bolical doings  of  yesterday?  " 

"  Yes,  we  heard  something  about  yesterday." 

"You  see  now!"  rejoined  the  merchant;  "you  know  the 
news.  I  thought,  when  you  are  stationed  here  all  day,  to 
watch  and  sound  everybody  that  comes  by  .  .  .  ." 


240  MANZONI 

"  But  to-day:  how  have  matters  gone  to-day?" 
"Ah,  to-day.     Do  you  know  nothing  about  to-day?" 
*'  Nothing  whatever;  nobody  has  come  by." 
''Then  let  me  wet  my  hps;  and  afterward   I'll   tell  you 
about  everything.     You  shall  hear."     Having  filled  his  glass, 
he  took  it  in  his  right  hand,  and,  lifting  up  his  mustachios  with 
the  first  two  fingers  of  his  left,  and  then  settling  his  beard 
with  the  palm,  he  drank  it  ofY,  and  continued:  ''There  was 
little  wanting,  my  worthy  friends,  to  make  to-day  as  rough  a 
day  as  yesterday,  or  worse.     I  can  scarcely  believe  it  true  that 
I  am  here  to  tell  you  about  it;  for  I  had  once  put  aside  every 
thought  of  my  journey,  to  stay  and  take  care  of  my  unfortu- 
nate shop." 

"  What  was  the  matter,  then?  "  said  one  of  his  auditors. 
"  What  was  the  matter?  You  shall  hear."  And,  carving 
the  meat  that  was  set  before  him,  he  began  to  eat,  at  the  same 
time  continuing  his  narration.  The  crowd,  standing  at  both 
sides  of  the  table,  listened  to  him  with  open  mouths ;  and  Ren- 
zo,  apparently  giving  no  heed  to  what  he  said,  listened,  per- 
haps, more  eagerly  than  any  of  the  others,  as  he  slowly  finished 
the  last  few  mouthfuls. 

"  This  morning,  then,  those  rascals  who  made  such  a  hor- 
rible uproar  yesterday,  repaired  to  the  appointed  places  of 
meeting  (there  was  already  an  understanding  between  them, 
and  everything  was  arranged);  they  united  together,  and  be- 
gan again  the  old  story  of  going  from  street  to  street,  shouting, 
to  collect  a  crowd.  You  know  it  is  like  when  one  sweeps  a 
house — with  respect  be  it  spoken — the  heap  of  dust  increases 
as  one  goes  along.  When  they  thought  they  had  assembled 
enough  people,  they  set  oi¥  toward  the  house  of  the  super- 
intendent of  provisions;  as  if  the  treatment  they  gave  him  yes- 
terday was  not  enough,  to  a  gentleman  of  his  character — the 
villains!  And  the  lies  they  told  about  him!  All  inventions: 
he  is  a  worthy,  exact  gentleman;  and  I  may  say  so,  for  I  am 
very  intimate  with  him,  and  serve  him  with  cloth  for  his  serv- 
ants' livery.  They  proceeded  then  toward  this  house;  you 
ought  to  see  what  a  rabble,  and  what  faces;  just  fancy  their 
having  passed  my  shop,  with  faces  that  ....  the  Jews  of  the 
Via  Crucis  are  nothing  to  them.  And  such  things  as  they  ut- 
tered! enough  to  make  one  stop  one's  ears,  if  it  had  not  been 
that  it  might  have  turned  to  account  in  discovering  one.  They 
went  forward  then  with  the  kind  intention  of  plundering  the 
house,  but  .  .  .  ."  Here  he  raised  his  left  hand  and  extended 
it  in  the  air,  placing  the  end  of  his  thumb  on  the  point  of  his 
nose. 


THE   BETROTHED  24I 

"  But?"  said  almost  all  his  auditors. 

"  But,"  continued  the  merchant,  "  they  found  the  street 
blockaded  with  planks  and  carts,  and  behind  this  barricade  a 
good  tile  of  soldiers,  with  their  guns  levelled,  and  the  butt- 
ends  resting  on  their  shoulders.  When  they  saw  this  prepara- 
tion ....  What  would  you  have  done?" 

"  Turned  back." 

*'  To  be  sure;  and  so  did  they.  But  just  listen  if  it  wasn't 
the  devil  that  inspired  them.  They  reached  the  Cordusio,  and 
there  saw  the  bake-house  which  they  wanted  to  plunder  the 
day  before:  here  they  were  busy  in  distributing  bread  to  their 
customers;  there  were  noblemen  there,  ay,  the  very  flower  of 
the  nobility,  to  watch  that  everything  went  on  in  good  order; 
but  the  mob  (they  had  the  devil  within  them,  I  tell  you,  and  be- 
sides, there  were  some  whispering  in  their  ears,  and  urging 
them  on),  the  mob  rushed  in  furiously,  '  Seize  away,  and  I  will 
seize  too: '  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  noblemen,  bakers,  cus- 
tomers, loaves,  benches,  counters,  troughs,  chests,  bags,  sieves, 
bran,  flour,  dough,  all  were  turned  upside  down." 

"And  the  soldiers?" 

*'  The  soldiers  had  the  vicar's  house  to  defend;  one  can  not 
sing  and  carry  the  cross  at  the  same  time.  It  was  all  done  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  I  tell  you:  off  and  away;  everything 
that  could  be  put  to  any  use  was  carried  off.  And  then  they 
proposed  again  the  beautiful  scene  of  yesterday — dragging  the 
rest  to  the  square,  and  making  a  bonfire.  They  had  already 
begun — the  villains! — to  carry  some  things  out  of  the  house, 
when  one  greater  villain  than  the  rest — what  do  you  think  was 
the  proposal  he  made?  " 

"What?" 

"What!  to  make  a  pile  of  everything  in  the  shop,  and  to 
set  fire  to  the  heap  and  the  house  together.  No  sooner  said 
than  done  .  .  .  ." 

"  Did  they  set  fire  to  it?" 

"  Wait.  A  worthy  man  of  the  neighbourhood  had  an  in- 
spiration from  Heaven.  He  ran  up-stairs,  sought  for  a  cruci- 
fix, found  one,  and  hung  it  in  front  of  one  of  the  windows; 
then  he  took  two  candles  which  had  been  blessed,  lit  them, 
and  set  them  outside,  on  the  v/indow-sill,  one  on  each  side  of 
the  crucifix.  The  mob  looked  up.  It  must  be  owned,  there  is 
still  some  fear  of  God  in  IMilan;  everybody  came  to  his 
senses.  At  least,  I  mean  most  of  them ;  there  were  some,  cer- 
tainly, devils  enough  to  have  set  fire  to  Paradise,  for  the  sake 
of  plunder;  but,  finding  that  the  crowd  was  not  of  their  opinion, 
they  were  obliged  to  abandon  their  design,  and  keep  quiet. 
16 


242 


MANZONI 


Just  fancy  now  who  arrived — all  their  Graces  of  the  Cathedral, 
in  procession,  with  the  cross  elevated,  and  in  their  canonical 
robes;  and  my  lord  the  Arch-presbyter  began  preaching  on 
one  side,  and  my  lord  the  Penitentiary  on  the  other,  and  others 
again,  scattered  here  and  there:  'But,  good  people;  what 
would  you  do?  is  this  the  example  you  set  your  children?  go 
home,  go  home;  you  shall  have  bread  at  a  low  price;  if  you'll 
only  look,  you'll  see  that  the  rate  is  pasted  up  at  every  cor- 


ner.' " 


"Was  it  so?" 

"  What?  was  it  so?  Do  you  think  that  their  Graces  of  the 
Cathedral  would  come,  in  their  magnificent  robes,  to  tell  them 
falsehoods?" 

''  And  what  did  the  people  do?  " 

"  They  dispersed  by  degrees ;  some  ran  to  the  corners  of 
the  streets,  and  for  those  who  could  read,  there  was  the  fixed 
rate,  sure  enough.  What  do  you  think  of  it?  eight  ounces  of 
bread  for  a  penny." 

"What  good  luck!" 

"  The  proof  of  a  pudding  is  in  the  eating.  How  much 
flour  do  you  think  they  have  wasted  yesterday  and  this  morn- 
ing?    Enough  to  support  the  Duchy  for  two  months." 

"  Then  they've  made  no  good  laws  for  us  in  the  country?  " 

"  What  has  been  done  at  Milan  is  entirely  at  the  expense 
of  the  city.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you:  it  must  be  as 
God  wills.  Fortunately,  the  sedition  is  finished,  for  I  haven't 
told  you  all  yet;  here  comes  the  best  part." 

"  What  is  there  besides?  " 

"  Only,  that,  last  evening,  or  this  morning,  I'm  not  sure 
which,  many  of  the  leaders  have  been  seized,  and  four  of  them, 
it  is  known,  are  to  be  hanged  directly.  No  sooner  did  this  get 
abroad,  than  everybody  went  home  the  shortest  way,  not  to 
run  the  risk  of  becoming  number  five.  When  I  left  Milan,  it 
looked  like  a  convent  of  friars." 

"  But  will  they  really  hang  them?  " 

"  Undoubtedly,  and  quickly,  too,"  replied  the  merchant. 

"  And  what  will  the  people  do?  "  asked  the  same  inter- 
rogator as  had  put  the  other  question. 

"  The  people  will  go  to  see  them,"  said  the  merchant. 
'They  had  such  a  desire  to  see  a  Christian  hanging  in  the  open 
air,  that  they  wanted — the  vagabonds ! — to  despatch  the  super- 
intendent of  provisions  in  that  way.  By  this  exchange  they 
will  have  four  wretches,  attended  with  every  formality,  accom- 
panied by  Capuchins,  and  by  friars  of  the  buona  morte:  but 
they  deserve  it.     It  is  an  interference  of  Providence,  you  see; 


THE   BETROTHED  243 

and  it's  a  necessary  thing.  They  were  already  beginning  to  di- 
vert themselves  by  entering  the  shops,  and  helping  themselves 
without  paying;  if  they'd  let  them  go  on  so,  after  bread,  wine 
would  have  had  its  turn,  and  so  on  from  thing  to  thing  .... 
You  may  imagine  whether  they  would  abandon  so  conven- 
ient a  practice,  of  their  own  free  will.  And  I  can  tell  you 
that  was  no  very  pleasant  thought  for  an  honest  man  keeping 
a  shop." 

**  Certainly  not,"  said  one  of  his  hearers.  "  Certainly  not," 
replied  the  rest,  in  chorus. 

'*  And,"  continued  the  merchant,  wiping  his  beard  with  the 
table-cloth,  "it  had  all  been  projected  for  some  time:  there 
was  a  league,  you  know." 

"  A  league,  was  there?  " 

"  Yes,  there  was  a  league.  All  cabals  formed  by  the  Navar- 
rines,  by  that  French  cardinal  there,  you  know,  with  a  half- 
Turkish  name,  who  every  day  contrives  something  fresh  to 
annoy  the  court  of  Spain.  But,  above  all,  he  aims  at  playing 
some  trick  in  Milan;  for  he  knows  well  enough — the  knave! — 
that  the  strength  of  the  King  lies  there." 

"  Ay." 

"  Shall  I  give  you  a  proof  of  it?  Those  who've  made  the 
greatest  noise  were  strangers;  there  were  faces  going  about 
which  had  never  before  been  seen  in  Milan.  By  the  by,  I  for- 
got to  tell  you  one  thing  which  was  told  me  for  certain.  The 
police  had  caught  one  of  these  fellows  in  an  inn  .  .  .  ."  Ren- 
zo,  who  had  not  lost  a  single  syllable  of  this  conversation, 
was  taken  with  a  cold  shudder  on  hearing  this  chord  touched, 
and  almost  slipped  under  the  table  before  he  thought  of 
trying  to  contain  himself.  No  one,  however,  perceived  it; 
and  the  speaker,  without  interrupting  his  relation  for  a 
moment,  had  continued:  *' They  don't  exactly  know  where 
he  came  from,  who  sent  him,  nor  what  kind  of  a  man 
he  was,  but  he  was  certainly  one  of  the  leaders.  Yester- 
day, in  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  he  played  the  very  devil; 
and  then,  not  content  with  that,  he  must  begin  to  harangue 
the  people,  and  propose — a  mere  trifle! — to  murder  all  the 
nobility!  The  great  rascal!  Who  would  support  the  poor 
if  all  the  nobles  were  killed?  The  police,  who  had  been 
watching  him,  laid  hands  upon  him;  they  found  on  his  per- 
son a  great  bundle  of  letters,  and  were  leading  him  away 
to  prison,  but  his  companions,  who  were  keeping  guard 
round  the  inn,  came  in  great  numbers,  and  delivered  him — 
the  villlan!" 

"  And  what  became  of  him?  " 


244 


MANZONI 


"  It  isn't  known;  he  may  be  fled,  or  he  may  be  concealed 
in  Milan:  they  are  people  who  have  neither  house  nor  home, 
and  yet  find  lodging  and  a  place  of  refuge  everywhere:  how- 
ever, though  the  devil  can  and  will  help  them,  yet  they  may 
fall  into  the  hands  of  justice  when  they  least  expect  it;  for 
when  the  pear  is  ripe  it  must  fall.  For  the  present,  it  is  well 
known  that  the  letters  are  in  possession  of  government,  and 
that  the  whole  conspiracy  is  therein  described;  and  they  say 
that  many  people  are  implicated  in  it.  This  much  is  certain, 
that  they  have  turned  Milan  upside  down,  and  would  have 
done  much  worse.  It  is  said  that  the  bakers  are  rogues;  I 
know  they  are;  but  they  ought  to  be  hanged  in  the  course  of 
justice.  They  say  there  is  corn  hidden;  who  doesn't  know 
that?  But  it  is  the  business  of  the  government  to  keep  a 
good  look-out,  to  bring  it  to  light,  and  to  hang  the  mo- 
nopolists in  company  with  the  bakers.  And  if  the  government 
does  nothing,  the  city  ought  to  remonstrate;  and  if  they 
don't  listen  the  first  time,  remonstrate  again;  for  by  dint  of 
appeals  they  will  get  what  they  want;  but  not  adopt  the 
villianous  practice  of  furiously  entering  shops  and  ware- 
houses to  get  booty." 

Renzo's  small  meal  had  turned  into  poison.  It  seemed  like 
an  age  before  he  could  get  out  of,  and  away  from,  the  inn  and 
the  village;  and  a  dozen  times,  at  least,  he  had  said  to  himself, 
''  Now  I  may  surely  go."  But  the  fear  of  exciting  suspicion, 
now  increased  beyond  measure,  and  prevailing  over  every  other 
thought,  had  kept  him  still  nailed  to  his  seat.  In  this  perplex- 
ity, he  thought  the  chatterer  must  at  last  stop  talking  about 
him,  and  determined  in  his  own  mind  to  make  his  escape  as 
soon  as  another  subject  was  started. 

"  For  this  reason,"  said  one  of  the  party,  "  knowing  how 
these  things  go,  and  that  honest  men  fare  but  badly  in  such 
disturbances,  I  wouldn't  let  my  curiosity  conquer,  and  have, 
therefore,  remained  quietly  at  home." 

"  Neither  would  I  move,  for  the  same  reason,"  said  an- 
other. 

"  I,"  added  a  third,  "  if  I  had  happened  by  chance  to  be  at 
Milan,  I  would  have  left  any  business  whatever  unfinished, 
and  have  returned  home  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  have  a  wife 
and  children;  and,  besides,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  like  such 
stirs." 

At  this  moment  the  landlord,  who  had  been  eagerly  listen- 
ing with  the  rest,  advanced  toward  the  other  end  of  the  table 
to  see  what  the  stranger  was  doing.  Renzo  seized  the  op- 
portunity,   and   beckoning   to    the    host,    asked   for    his   ac- 


THE   BETROTHED  245 

count,  settled  it  without  dispute,  though  his  purse  was  by 
this  time  very  low;  and  without  further  delay,  went  direct- 
ly to  the  door,  passed  the  threshold,  and  taking  care  not 
to  turn  along  the  same  road  as  that  by  which  he  had  ar- 
rived, set  off  in  the  opposite  direction,  trusting  to  the  guid- 
ance of  Providence. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

ONE  wish  is  often  enough  to  allow  a  man  no  peace; 
what,  then,  must  two  have  been — one  at  war  with  the 
other?  Our  poor  Renzo,  as  the  reader  knows,  had 
had  two  such  conflicting  desires  in  his  mind  for  sev- 
eral hours;  the  wish  to  make  his  escape,  with  the  wish  to  re- 
main undiscovered;  and  the  unfortunate  words  of  the  mer- 
chant had  increased  both  one  and  the  other  to  an  extravagant 
degree.  His  adventure,  then,  had  got  abroad!  There  were 
means,  then,  employed  to  seize  him!  Who  knew  how  many 
bailiffs  were  in  the  field  to  give  him  chase!  or  what  orders  had 
been  forwarded  to  keep  a  watch  in  the  villages,  at  the  inn,  on 
the  roads!  He  reflected,  however,  that,  after  all,  there  were  but 
two  bailiffs  who  knew  him,  and  that  his  name  was  not  written 
upon  his  forehead;  but  then,  again,  a  hundred  stories  he  had 
heard  rushed  into  his  mind,  of  fugitives  caught  and  discovered 
in  many  strange  ways,  recognized  by  their  walk,  by  their  sus- 
picious air,  and  other  unthought-of  tokens:  everything  ex- 
cited his  alarm.  Although,  as  he  left  Gorgonzola,  the  tolling 
of  the  Ave  Maria  sounded  in  his  ears,  and  the  increasing  dark- 
ness every  moment  diminished  his  danger,  yet  it  was  very  un- 
willingly that  he  took  the  high  road,  proposing  to  follow  the 
first  by-lane  which  seemed  likely  to  bring  him  to  the  point  he 
vv'as  so  anxious  to  reach.  At  first,  he  occasionally  met  a  trav- 
eller; but  so  full  was  his  imagination  of  direful  apprehensions, 
that  he  had  not  courage  to  detain  any  one  to  inquire  his  way. — 
'*  That  innkeeper  said  six  miles,"  thought  he.  ''  If,  by  taking 
these  foot-paths  and  by-lanes,  I  make  them  eight,  or  even  ten, 
my  legs,  which  have  lasted  me  so  far,  will  manage  these  too. 
I'm  certainly  not  going  toward  Milan,  so  I  must  be  going  to- 
ward the  Adda.  Walk  away,  then ;  sooner  or  later,  I  shall  get 
there.  The  Adda  has  a  good  voice;  and  when  once  Tm  near 
it,  I  shan't  want  anybody  to  point  it  out  to  me.  If  any  boat  is 
there,  I'll  cross  directly;  if  not,  I'll  wait  till  morning,  in  a  field, 
or  on  a  tree,  like  the  sparrows:  better  on  a  tree  than  in 
prison." 

246 


THE   BETROTHED 


247 


Very  soon,  he  saw  a  lane  turning  down  to  the  left,  and 
he  pursued  it.  At  this  hour,  if  he  had  met  with  any  one,  he 
would  no  longer  have  hesitated  to  address  him;  but  he  heard 
not  a  footstep  of  a  living  creature.  He  followed,  therefore,  the 
windings  of  the  lane,  indulging  mean  while  in  such  reflections 
as  these: 

"  I  play  the  devil!  I  murder  all  the  nobility!  A  packet  of 
letters — I!  My  companions  keeping  guard  around  me!  I'd 
give  something  to  meet  with  that  merchant  face  to  face,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Adda  (ah,  when  shall  I  get  across  that  blessed 
Adda?)  I'd  make  him  stand,  and  ask  him,  at  my  convenience, 
where  he  had  picked  up  all  this  fine  information.  Just  please 
to  be  informed,  my  dear  sir,  that  the  thing  went  so  and  so ;  and 
that  all  the  mischief  I  played  was  helping  Ferrer,  as  if  he  had 
been  my  brother:  know,  moreover,  that  those  rascals  who,  to 
hear  you  talk,  one  would  think  were  my  friends,  because  once 
I  said  a  word  or  two,  like  a  good  Christian,  wanted  to  play  me 
a  very  rough  trick;  know,  too,  that  while  you  were  taking  care 
of  your  own  shop,  I  was  endangering  my  ribs  to  save  your  Si- 
gnor,  the  superintendent  of  provisions — a  man  I  never  either 
knew  or  saw  in  my  life.  Wait  and  see  if  I  ever  stir  again  to 
help  gentlemen  ....  It  is  true  we  ought  to  do  it  for  our  soul's 
good:  they  are  our  neighbours,  too.  And  that  great  bundle 
of  letters,  where  all  the  conspiracy  was  revealed,  and  which 
you  know  for  certain  is  in  the  hands  of  government;  sure 
enough,  I  couldn't  show  it  you  here  without  the  help  of  the 
devil.  Would  you  have  any  curiosity  to  see  this  mighty 
packet?  Look  here  ....  A  single  letter  ....  Yes,  my 
good  sir,  one  letter  only;  and  this  letter,  if  you'd  like  to  know, 
was  written  by  a  monk  capable  of  instructing  you  in  any  point 
of  doctrine  you  wish — a  monk,  without  doing  you  injustice,  a 
single  hair  of  whose  beard  is  worth  all  yours  put  together; 
and  this  letter,  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  is  written,  you  see, 
to  another  monk,  also  a  man  ....  Just  see,  now,  who  my 
rascally  friends  are.  Learn,  if  you  please,  how  to  talk  another 
time,  particularly  when  you  are  talking  about  a  fellow-crea- 
ture." 

After  a  little  time,  however,  these  and  similar  reflections 
gave  way  to  others ;  his  present  circumstances  occupying  the 
whole  attention  of  our  poor  traveller.  The  dread  of  being 
pursued  and  discovered,  which  had  so  incessantly  embittered 
his  day's  journey,  now  no  longer  gave  him  any  uneasiness;  but 
how  many  things  made  his  nightly  wanderings  sufficiently  un- 
comfortable!— darkness;  solitude;  increasing,  and  now  pain- 
ful, fatigue;  a  geiitle,  but  steady  and  piercing  breeze,  which 


248  MANZONI 

would  be  far  from  agreeable  to  a  man  still  dressed  in  the  same 
clothes  which  he  had  put  on  to  go  a  short  distance  to  a 
wedding,  and  quickly  to  return  in  triumph  to  his  home,  only 
a  few  steps  ofT;  and,  what  rendered  everything  doubly  irk- 
some, walking  at  a  venture,  in  search  of  a  place  of  rest  and 
security. 

If  he  happened  to  pass  through  a  village,  he  would  walk 
as  quietly  and  warily  as  possible,  lest  any  of  the  doors  should 
be  still  open;  but  he  saw  no  other  signs  of  remaining  wake- 
fulness among  the  inhabitants  than  occasionally  a  glanc- 
ing light  in  one  of  the  windows.  When  on  the  road,  away 
from  every  abode,  he  would  pause,  every  now  and  then,  and 
listen  eagerly  for  the  beloved  murmur  of  the  Adda;  but  in 
vain.  He  heard  no  sounds  but  the  distant  howling  of  dogs  at 
some  solitary  dwelling,  which  floated  through  the  air,  at  once 
mournful  and  threatening.  On  approaching  any  of  these 
abodes,  the  howling  was  changed  into  an  irritated,  angry  bark; 
and  in  passing  before  the  door,  he  heard,  and  almost  fancied  he 
saw,  the  fierce  creatures  with  their  heads  at  the  crack  of  the 
door  reiterating  their  howls.  This  quickly  removed  all  temp- 
tation to  knock  and  ask  shelter,  and  probably  his  courage 
would  have  failed  had  there  been  no  such  obstacles  in  his  way. 
"  Who's  there?  "  thought  he,  '*  what  do  you  want  at  this  hour? 
How  did  you  come  here?  Tell  who  you  are.  Isn't  there  an 
inn  where  you  can  get  a  bed?  This,  at  best,  is  what  they  will 
say  to  me,  if  I  knock;  even  if  it  shouldn't  be  a  cowardly  sleeper, 
who  begin  to  shout  out  lustily,  'Help!  Thieves!'  I 
must  have  something  ready  for  an  answer;  and  what  could  I 
say?  If  anybody  hears  a  noise  in  the  night,  nothing  enters 
their  heads  but  robbers,  villains,  and  rogues :  they  never  think 
that  an  honest  man  may  be  benighted,  not  to  say  a  gentleman 
in  his  carriage."  He  determined,  therefore,  to  reserve  this 
plan  as  a  last  resource  in  case  of  necessity,  and  continued  his 
way,  still  with  the  hope  of  at  least  discovering  the  Adda,  if  not 
of  crossing  it,  that  night,  and  not  being  obliged  again  to  go  in 
search  of  it  in  broad  daylight. 

On,  therefore,  he  went,  till  he  reached  a  part  where  the 
country  changed  from  cultivated  fields  into  a  heath  of  ferns 
and  broom.  This  seemed,  if  not  a  sure  indication,  at  least, 
a  kind  of  argument  that  there  was  a  river  in  the  neighbour- 
hood ;  and  he  advanced  across  the  common,  pursuing  the  path 
which  traversed  it.  After  walking  a  few  paces,  he  stopped 
to  listen;  but  in  vain.  The  tediousness  of  the  journey  seemed 
to  be  increased  by  the  wildness  of  the  place;  not  a  mulberry 
nor  a  vine  was  to  be  seen,  nor  any  other  signs  of  human  cul- 


THE   BETROTHED 


249 


ture,  which,  In  the  early  part  of  his  progress,  seemed  almost 
like  half-companions  to  him.  However,  he  still  went  forward, 
beguiling  the  time,  and  endeavouring  to  drive  away  the  images 
and  apparitions  which  haunted  his  mind — the  relics  of  a  hun- 
dred wonderful  stories  he  had  heard — by  repeating,  as  he  went 
along,  some  of  the  prayers  for  the  dead. 

By  degrees,  he  entered  among  larger  patches  of  brush- 
wood, wild  plum-trees,  dwarf  oaks,  and  brambles.  Continu- 
ing his  way,  with  more  impatience  than  alacrity,  he  saw  scat- 
tered occasionally  throughout  these  patches,  a  solitary  tree; 
and,  still  following  the  guidance  of  the  footpath,  perceived  that 
he  was  entering  a  wood.  He  felt  a  kind  of  reluctance  to  pro- 
ceed; but  he  conquered  it,  and  unwillingly  went  forward. 
The  further  he  went,  the  more  his  unwillingness  increased, 
and  the  more  did  everything  he  saw  vex  and  harass  his  imagi- 
nation. The  bushes  he  discerned  before  him  assumed  strange, 
marvellous,  and  uncouth  forms;  the  shadows  of  the  tops  of  the 
trees  alarmed  him,  as,  slightly  agitated  by  the  breeze,  they 
quivered  on  his  path,  illuminated  by  the  pale  light  of  the  moon; 
the  very  rustling  of  the  withered  leaves,  as  he  trampled  them 
under  foot,  had  in  it  something  hateful  to  his  ear.  His  limbs 
felt  a  strange  impulse  to  run,  and,  at  the  same  time,  seemed 
scarcely  able  to  support  him.  The  cold  night-breeze  blew 
more  chilly  and  sharply  against  his  forehead  and  throat;  he 
felt  it  piercing  through  his  thin  clothes  to  his  skin,  which  shiv- 
ered in  the  blast,  and,  penetrating  more  subtilely  to  his  very 
bones,  extinguishing  the  last  remains  of  vigour.  At  one  time, 
the  weariness  and  undefined  horror  with  which  he  had  so  long 
been  struggling  had  suddenly  almost  overwhelmed  him.  He 
nearly  lost  his  self-government;  but  terrified  above  all  things 
at  his  own  terror,  he  summoned  up  his  former  spirits,  and  by 
a  great  efifort,  forced  them  to  assume  their  usual  sway.  Thus 
fortified  for  a  moment,  he  stood  still  to  deliberate,  and  re- 
solved to  leave  the  wood  by  the  same  path  as  he  had  traversed, 
to  go  straight  to  the  last  village  he  had  passed,  to  return  once 
more  among  mankind,  and  there  to  seek  shelter,  even  at  the 
inn.  While  he  thus  stood,  the  rustling  of  his  feet  among  the 
leaves  hushed,  and,  all  perfectly  silent  around  him,  a  noise 
reached  his  ear,  a  murmur — a  murmur  of  running  water.  He 
Hstens;  assures  himself;  and  exclaims,  "It's  the  Adda!"  It 
was  like  the  restoration  of  a  friend,  of  a  brother,  of  a  deliverer. 
His  weariness  almost  disappeared,  his  pulse  again  beat;  he  felt 
his  blood  circulate  freely  and  warmly  through  all  his  veins; 
his  confidence  increased,  the  gloominess  and  oppression  of  his 
mind,  in  great  part,  vanished  away;  and  he  no  longer  hesi- 


250 


MANZONI 


tated  to  penetrate  farther  into  the  wood,  toward  the  friendly 
murmur. 

At  last  he  reached  the  extremity  of  the  flat,  at  the  edge 
of  a  steep  declivity;  and,  peeping  through  the  bushes  that 
everywhere  covered  its  surface,  he  discerned,  at  the  bottom, 
the  glittering  of  the  running  water.  Then,  raising  his  eyes, 
he  surveyed  the  extensive  plain  on  the  opposite  side,  scattered 
with  villages;  beyond  this  the  hills,  and  on  one  of  these  a  large, 
whitish  tract,  in  which  he  fancied  he  could  distinguish  a  city — 
Bergamo,  undoubtedly.  He  descended  the  steep  a  little  way, 
separating  and  pushing  aside  the  brushwood  with  his  hands 
and  arms,  and  looked  down,  to  see  if  there  were  any  boat  mov- 
ing on  the  water,  or  to  listen  if  he  could  hear  the  splashing  of 
oars;  but  he  saw  and  heard  nothing.  Had  it  been  anything 
less  than  the  Adda,  Renzo  would  have  descended  at  once  and 
attempted  to  ford  it;  but  this,  he  well  knew,  in  such  a  river, 
was  not  a  matter  of  very  great  facility. 

He  therefore  stood  to  consult  with  himself  what  were  best 
to  be  done.  To  clamber  up  into  a  tree,  and  there  await  the 
dawn  of  morning,  in  the  chill  night-breeze,  in  a  frosty  air,  and 
in  his  present  dress,  w^as  more  than  enough  to  benumb  him;  to 
pace  up  and  down,  for  constant  exercise,  all  that  time,  besides 
that  it  would  have  been  a  very  inefficacious  defence  against  the 
severity  of  the  temperature,  was  also  asking  too  much  of  those 
unfortunate  limbs  which  had  already  done  much  more  than 
their  duty.  Suddenly  he  remembered  having  seen  a  cascinotto 
in  one  of  the  fields  adjoining  the  uncultivated  down.  Thus  the 
peasants  of  the  Milanese  plain  designate  certain  little  cottages, 
thatched  with  straw,  constructed  of  the  trunks  and  branches  of 
trees,  fastened  together  and  filled  up  with  mud,  where  they  are 
in  the  habit  of  depositing  their  harvest  during  the  summer  sea- 
son, repairing  thither  at  night  to  protect  it:  during  the  rest  of 
the  year  they  are  usually  unoccupied.  He  quickly  fixed  upon 
this  as  his  resting-place  for  the  night;  and  again  setting  off  on 
his  way,  repassed  the  wood,  the  tract  of  bushes,  and  the  heath ; 
and  entering  upon  the  cultivated  land,  he  quickly  espied  the 
cascinotto,  and  went  toward  it.  A  worm-eaten  and  tumble- 
down door,  without  lock  or  chain,  blocked  up  the  entrance; 
Renzo  drew  it  toward  him,  and  on  entering,  saw  a  hurdle,  in- 
tended to  serve  the  purpose  of  a  hammock,  suspended  in  the 
air,  and  supported  by  bands  formed  of  little  twigs;  he  did  not, 
however,  make  use  of  it;  but  seeing  a  little  straw  lying  on  the 
ground,  thought  that,  even  there,  sleep  would  be  very  welcome. 

Before  stretching  his  weary  frame  on  the  bed  Providence 
had  prepared  for  him,  he  knelt  down  to  offer  up  his  thanks  for 


THE    BETROTHED 


251 


this  blessing,  and  for  all  the  assistance  he  had  received  that 
terrible  day.  He  then  repeated  his  usual  prayers;  and,  having 
finished  them,  begged  pardon  of  God  for  having  omitted  them 
the  evening  before,  and  gone  to  rest,  as  he  said,  like  a  dog,  or 
even  worse.  ''  And  for  this  reason,"  added  he  to  himself,  rest- 
ing his  hands  upon  the  straw,  and,  from  kneeling,  changing 
his  posture  to  that  of  lying,  "  for  this  reason  I  was  awaked  by 
such  agreeable  visitors  in  the  morning."  He  then  gathered  up 
all  the  straw  that  was  scattered  around,  and  spread  it  over  him, 
so  as  to  make  the  best  covering  he  could  to  secure  himself  from 
the  cold,  which,  even  there,  under  shelter,  made  itself  sufficient- 
ly felt;  and  crouching  beneath  it,  he  tried  to  get  a  little  sleep, 
thinking  that  he  had  purchased  it,  that  day,  more  dearly  than 
usual. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  he  closed  his  eyes,  before  visions 
began  to  throng  his  memory,  or  his  fancy  (I  can  not  undertake 
to  indicate  the  exact  spot) — visions  so  crowded,  so  incessant, 
that  they  quickly  banished  every  idea  of  sleep.  The  merchant, 
the  notary,  the  bailififs,  the  sword-cutler,  the  landlord,  Ferrer, 
the  superintendent,  the  party  at  the  inn,  the  crowds  in  the 
streets;  then  Don  Abbondio,  then  Don  Rodrigo:  and,  among 
so  many,  there  was  none  that  did  not  bring  some  sad  remem- 
brances of  misfortune  or  aversion. 

There  were  but  three  images  that  presented  themselves  to 
his  mind,  divested  of  every  bitter  recollection,  clear  of  every 
suspicion,  pleasing  in  every  aspect;  and  two,  principally — cer- 
tainly very  dissimilar,  but  closely  connected  in  the  heart  of  the 
youth — the  black-haired  Lucia,  and  the  white-bearded  Father 
Cristoforo.  Yet  the  consolation  he  felt  in  contemplating  even 
these  objects  was  anything  but  unmixed  and  tranquil.  In 
picturing  to  himself  the  good  friar,  he  felt  more  keenly  than 
ever  the  disgrace  of  his  faults,  his  shameful  intemperance,  and 
his  neglect  of  the  kind  Father's  paternal  advice;  and  in  con- 
templating the  image  of  Lucia !  we  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
what  he  felt;  the  reader  knows  the  circumstances,  and  must 
imagine  it  himself.  Neither  did  he  forget  the  poor  Agnese; 
Agnese,  who  had  chosen  him  for  her  son-in-law,  who  had  con- 
sidered him  almost  as  one  with  her  only  daughter,  and  before 
receiving  from  him  the  title  of  mother,  had  assumed  the  lan- 
guage and  affection  of  one,  and  demonstrated  parental  solici- 
tude for  him  by  her  actions.  But  it  was  an  additional  grief 
to  him,  and  not  the  least  bitter  one,  that  exactly  on  account  of 
these  affectionate  and  benevolent  intentions,  the  poor  woman 
was  now  homeless,  and  almost  houseless,  uncertain  of  the  fu- 
ture, and  reaping  sorrows  and  troubles,  from  those  very  cir- 


252 


MANZONI 


cumstances  which  he  had  hoped  would  be  the  joy  and  comfort 
of  her  decHnmg  years.  What  a  night,  poor  Renzo!  which 
was  to  have  been  the  fifth  of  his  nuptials!  What  a  room! 
What  a  matrimonial  couch!  And  after  such  a  day!  And  to 
precede  such  a  morrow,  such  a  succession  of  days!  "What  God 
wills,"  replied  he,  to  the  thoughts  which  most  tormented  him, 
"  what  God  wills.  He  knows  what  He  does!  it  is  for  our  good 
too.  Let  it  be  as  a  penance  for  my  sins.  Lucia  is  so  good! 
God,  surely,  will  not  let  her  suffer  for  long — for  very  long!  " 

Harassed  by  such  thoughts  as  these,  despairing  of  ob- 
taining any  sleep,  and  the  piercing  cold  becoming  more  and 
more  insufferable,  so  that  from  time  to  time  his  whole  frame 
shook,  and  his  teeth  chattered  in  spite  of  himself,  Renzo  longed 
for  the  approach  of  day,  and  impatiently  measured  the  slow 
progress  of  the  hours.  I  say,  measured,  because  every  half- 
hour  he  heard  resounding  through  the  deep  silence  the  strokes 
of  a  large  clock,  probably  that  of  Trezzo.  The  first  time,  the 
sound  reached  his  ear  so  unexpectedly,  without  his  having  the 
least  idea  whence  it  came,  that  it  brought  with  it  something 
solemn  and  mysterious  to  his  mind;  the  feeling  of  a  warning 
uttered  in  an  unknown  voice,  by  some  invisible  person. 

When,  at  last,  the  clock  had  tolled  eleyen — the  hour  Renzo 
had  determined  to  get  up — he  rose,  Half  benumbed  with  the 
cold,  and  falling  upon  his  knees,  repeated  his  matin  prayers 
with  more  than  ordinary  devotion;  then,  standing  up,  he 
stretched  his  limbs,  and  shook  his  body,  as  if  to  settle  and 
unite  his  members,  which  seemed  almost  dissevered  from  one 
another,  breathed  upon  his  hands  and  rubbed  them  together, 
and  then  opened  the  door  of  the  cascinotto,  first  taking  the 
precaution  to  look  warily  about  him,  perchance  any  one  might 
be  there.  No  one  being  visible,  he  cast  his  eye  round  to  dis- 
cover the  path  he  had  followed  the  preceding  evening,  and 
quickly  recognizing  it,  much  clearer  and  more  distinct  than  his 
memory  pictured  it,  he  set  off  in  that  direction. 

The  sky  announced  a  beautiful  day:  the  pale  and  rayless 
moon  was  yet  visible  near  the  horizon,  in  the  spacious  field 
of  azure,  still  softened  by  a  tinge  of  morning  grey,  which 
shaded  gradually  toward  the  east,  into  a  rosy  and  primrose 
hue.  Still  nearer  the  horizon,  a  few  irregular  clouds  stretched 
out,  in  lengthened  waves,  rather  azure  than  grey,  their  lower 
sides  edged  with  almost  a  streak  of  flame,  becoming  every  mo- 
ment more  vivid  and  sharply-defined;  while,  higher  up,  light 
and  fleecy  clouds,  mingling  with  each  other,  and  of  a  thou- 
sand nameless  hues,  floated  on  the  surface  of  the  placid  heav- 
ens; a  true  Lombard  sky,  so  beautiful  when  it  is  beautiful — 


THE   BETROTHED 


253 


SO  brilliant,  so  calm.  Had  Renzo  been  here  to  enjoy  himself, 
he  would  certainly  have  looked  upward,  and  admired  a  dawn 
so  different  to  what  he  had  been  accustomed  to  see  among  his 
native  mountains;  but  his  eyes  were  bent  to  the  ground,  and 
he  walked  on  rapidly,  both  to  regain  a  little  warmth  and  to 
reach  the  river  as  quickly  as  he  could.  He  retraced  the  fields, 
the  grove,  the  bushes ;  traversed  the  wood,  with  a  kind  of  com- 
passion, as  he  looked  around  and  remembered  the  horror  he 
had  felt  there  a  few  hours  before;  reached  the  edge  of  the  pre- 
cipitous bank,  and  looking  down  through  the  crags  and  bushes, 
discovered  a  fisherman's  bark  slowly  making  its  way  against 
the  stream,  close  by  the  shore.  He  hastily  descended  the 
shortest  way  through  the  bushes,  stood  upon  the  bank,  and 
gently  called  to  the  fisherman;  and  with  the  intention  of  ap- 
pearing to  ask  a  favour  of  little  importance,  but,  without  being 
aware  of  it,  in  a  half-supplicatory  manner,  beckoned  to  him  to 
approach.  The  fisherman  cast  a  glance  along  the  shore,  looked 
carefully  both  up  and  down  the  river,  and  then  turning  the 
prow  toward  Renzo,  approached  the  side.  Renzo,  who  stood 
at  the  very  edge  of  the  stream,  almost  with  one  foot  in  the 
water,  seized  the  prow  as  it  drew  near,  and  jumped  into  the 
boat. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  take  me  across  to  the  other  side,  and 
ril  pay  you  for  it,"  said  he.  The  fisherman  had  already 
guessed  his  object,  and  had  turned  the  prow  to  the  opposite 
bank.  Renzo,  seeing  another  oar  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
stooped  down  and  took  it  up. 

"  Softly,  softly,"  said  the  owner;  but  on  seeing  how  dexter- 
ously the  youth  laid  hold  of  the  implement,  and  prepared  to 
handle  it,  *'  Aha!  "  added  he,  ''  you  know  your  business." 

"A  little,"  replied  Renzo;  and  he  began  to  row  with  a 
vigour  and  skill  beyond  those  of  an  amateur.  While  thus  ex- 
erting himself,  he  cast  an  occasional  dark  glance  at  the  shore 
he  had  just  left,  and  then  a  look  of  anxiety  to  the  one  they 
were  approaching.  He  was  annoyed  at  having  to  go  at  all 
down  the  stream;  but  the  current  here  was  too  rapid  to  cut 
directly  across  it;  so  that  the  bark,  partly  cleaving  and  partly 
following  the  course  of  the  water,  was  obliged  to  take  a  diag- 
onal direction.  As  it  happens  in  all  dark  and  intricate  under- 
takings, that  difficulties  present  themselves  to  the  mind  at  first 
only  in  general,  but  in  the  execution  of  the  enterprise  are  more 
minutely  observable;  so,  now  that  the  Adda  was  forded,  so 
to  say,  Renzo  felt  a  good  deal  of  disquietude  at  not  knowing 
for  certain  whether  here  it  was  the  boundary  of  the  two  states, 
or  whether,  when  this  obstacle  was  overcome,  there  might 


254 


MANZONI 


not  be  others  still  to  surmount.  Addressing  the  fisherman, 
therefore,  and  nodding  with  his  head  toward  the  whitish  spot 
which  he  had  noticed  the  night  before,  and  which  now  ap- 
peared much  more  distinct,  "Is  that  Bergamo?"  said  he, 
"that  town?" 

"  The  city  of  Bergamo,"  replied  the  fisherman. 

*'  And  that  shore,  there,  does  it  belong  to  Bergamo?  " 

"  The  territory  of  St.  Mark." 

'*  Long  live  St.  Mark!  "  exclaimed  Renzo. 

The  fisherman  made  no  reply. 

They  reached,  at  length,  the  opposite  shore;  Renzo  jumped 
out  upon  it,  and,  thanking  God  in  his  heart,  expressed  his 
gratitude  in  words  to  the  boatman;  then  putting  his  hand  in 
his  pocket,  he  drew  out  thence  a  berlinga — which,  considering 
his  circumstances,  was  no  little  loss  to  him — and  handed  it  to 
the  worthy  man,  who,  giving  another  glance  at  the  Milanese 
shore,  and  along  the  river  in  either  direction  stretched  out  his 
hand,  and  received  the  gift.  He  put  it  into  his  pocket,  and 
after  compressing  his  lips,  at  the  same  time  laying  his  fore- 
finger across  them,  with  a  significant  expression  of  counte- 
nance, said,  ''  A  good  journey  to  you!  "  and  turned  back. 

That  the  reader  may  not  be  surprised  at  the  prompt,  yet 
cautious,  civility  of  this  man  toward  a  perfect  stranger,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  inform  him  that,  frequently  requested  to  per- 
form a  similar  service  to  smugglers  and  banditti,  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  do  so,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  trifling  and  un- 
certain gains  which  he  might  thereby  obtain,  as  to  avoid 
making  himself  enemies  among  these  classes.  He  afforded  his 
assistance  whenever  he  could  assure  himself  of  not  being  dis- 
covered by  the  custom-house  officers,  bailiffs,  or  spies.  Thus, 
without  particularly  favouring  one  party  more  than  another,  he 
endeavoured  to  satisfy  all,  with  that  impartiality  usually  exer- 
cised by  those  who  are  compelled  to  deal  with  a  certain  set  of 
people,  while  liable  to  give  account  to  another. 

Renzo  paused  a  moment  on  the  bank,  to  contemplate  the 
opposite  shore — that  ground  which  just  before  had  almost 
burnt  beneath  his  feet. — Ah!  I  am  really  out  of  it! — was  his 
first  thought. — Hateful  country  that  you  are ! — was  his  second, 
bidding  it  farewell.  But  the  third  recurred  to  those  whom  he 
had  left  there.  Then  he  crossed  his  arms  on  his  breast,  heaved 
a  sigh,  bent  his  eyes  on  the  water  which  flowed  at  his  feet,  and 
thought — It  has  passed  under  the  bridge ! — Thus  that  at  Lecco 
was  generally  called  among  his  fellow-countrymen,  by  way  of 
eminence. — Ah !  hateful  world !    Enough :  whatever  God  wills. 

He  turned  his  back  upon  these  mournful  objects,  and  went 


THE   BETROTHED  255 

forward,  taking,  for  a  mark,  the  white  tract  on  the  side  of  the 
hill,  until  he  met  with  some  one  to  give  him  more  particular 
directions  in  his  way.  It  was  amusing  to  see  with  what  care- 
lessness and  disembarrassment  he  now  accosted  travellers,  and 
how  boldly  he  pronounced  the  name  of  the  village  where  his 
cousin  resided,  without  hesitation  or  disguise.  From  the  first 
person  who  directed  him,  he  learnt  that  he  had  yet  nine  miles 
to  travel. 

His  journey  was  not  very  blithesome.  Independent  of  his 
own  troubles,  his  eye  rested  every  moment  on  pitiable  objects, 
which  told  him  that  he  would  find  in  the  country  he  was  en- 
tering the  poverty  he  had  left  in  his  own.  All  along  the  way, 
but  more  particularly  in  the  villages  and  large  towns,  he  saw 
beggars  hastening  along,  mendicants  rather  from  circum- 
stances than  profession,  who  revealed  their  misery  more  in 
their  countenances  than  their  clothing:  peasants,  mountain- 
eers, artisans,  entire  families;  and  a  mingled  murmur  of  en- 
treaties, disputes,  and  infants'  cries.  Besides  the  mournful 
pity  that  it  awoke  in  Renzo's  mind,  this  sight  also  aroused  him 
to  the  remembrance  of  his  own  circumstances. 

*'  Who  knows,"  thought  he,  as  he  went  along,  "  if  I  shall 
find  anything  to  do?  if  there  is  any  work  now  to  be  got,  as 
there  used  to  be?  Well;  Bortolo  is  kindly  inclined  to  me; 
he  is  a  good  fellow;  he  has  made  some  money,  and  has  in- 
vited me  very  often;  he,  surely,  won't  forsake  me.  Besides, 
Providence  has  helped  me  hitherto  and  will  help  me,  I  hope, 
for  the  future." 

In  the  mean  while,  his  appetite,  already  considerably  sharp- 
ened, became,  as  he  went  on  his  way,  more  and  more  craving; 
and  though  he  felt  that  he  could  manage  very  well  to  the  end 
of  his  journey,  which  was  now  only  about  two  miles,  without 
great  inconvenience,  yet  he  reflected  that  it  would  not  be 
exactly  the  thing  to  make  his  appearance  before  his  cousin 
like  a  beggar,  and  address  him  with  the  salutation,  "  Give 
me  something  to  eat;"  so  drawing  all  his  riches  from  his 
pocket,  he  counted  them  over  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  to 
ascertain  the  amount.  It  was  an  amount  that  required  little 
calculation,  yet  still  there  was  more  than  enough  to  make  a 
small  meal;  he,  therefore,  entered  an  inn  to  get  a  little  re- 
freshment; and,  on  paying  the  account,  found  that  he  had 
still  a  few  pence  remaining. 

Just  outside,  lying  in  the  street,  and  so  close  to  the  door 
that  he  would  have  fallen  over  them  had  he  not  been  looking 
about  him,  Renzo  saw  two  women,  one  rather  elderly,  and  the 
other  a  younger  person,  with  an  infant  at  her  breast,  which, 


256  MANZONI 

after  vainly  endeavouring  to  satisfy  its  hunger,  was  crying 
bitterly;  they  were  all  three  as  pale  as  death;  and  standing 
by  them  was  a  man,  in  whose  face  and  limbs  there  might  still 
be  discerned  tokens  of  former  robustness,  though  now  broken 
and  almost  destroyed  by  long  poverty.  The  three  beggars 
stretched  out  their  hands  to  Renzo,  as  he  left  the  inn  with  a 
free  step  and  reinvigorated  air,  but  none  of  them  spoke;  what 
more  could  language  have  expressed? 

''There's  a  God-send  for  you!"  said  Renzo,  as  he  hastily 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and,  taking  out  his  last  pence, 
put  them  into  the  hand  that  was  nearest  to  him,  and  went  on 
his  way. 

The  refreshment,  and  this  good  work  together  (since  we 
are  made  of  both  soul  and  body),  had  gladdened  and  cheered 
all  his  thoughts.  Certain  it  is  that  he  felt  more  confidence 
for  the  future  from  having  thus  deprived  himself  of  his  last 
penny,  than  if  he  had  found  ten  such.  For  if  Providence  had 
kept  in  reserve,  for  the  support  of  three  wTctched  beggars, 
almost  fainting  on  the  road,  the  last  farthing  of  a  stranger, 
himself  a  fugitive,  far  from  his  own  home,  and  uncertain  how 
to  get  a  living,  could  he  think  that  that  Providence  would 
leave  in  destitution  him  whom  He  had  made  use  of  for  this 
purpose,  and  to  whom  He  had  given  so  vivid,  so  effective,  so 
self-abandoning  an  inclination?  Such  was,  in  general,  the 
feeling  of  the  youth,  though  probably  not  so  clearly  defined 
as  that  which  we  have  expressed  in  words.  During  the  re- 
mainder of  his  walk,  as  his  mind  recurred  to  the  different 
circumstances  and  contingencies  which  had  hitherto  appeared 
the  most  dark  and  perplexing,  all  seemed  to  brighten.  The 
famine  and  poverty  must  come  to  an  end,  for  there  was  a 
harvest  every  year:  in  the  mean  time,  he  had  his  cousin  Bor- 
tolo,  and  his  own  abilities;  and,  as  a  help  toward  his  sup- 
port, a  little  store  of  money  at  home,  which  he  could  easily 
send  for.  With  this  assistance,  at  the  worst,  he  could  live 
from  day  to  day  as  economically  as  possible,  till  better  times. 
— Then,  when  good  times  have  come  at  last — continued 
Renzo,  in  his  fanciful  dreams — the  demand  for  work  will  be 
renewed;  masters  will  strive  who  shall  get  Milanese  weavers, 
because  they  know  their  trade  best;  the  Milanese  weavers  will 
hold  their  heads  high;  they  who  want  clever  workmen  must 
pay  for  them;  we  shall  make  something  to  live  upon  and  still 
have  some  to  spare;  we  can  then  furnish  a  cottage,  and  write 
to  the  women  to  come.  And  besides,  why  wait  so  long? 
Shouldn't  we  have  lived  upon  mv  little  store  at  home,  all  this 
winter?    So  we  can  live  here.    There  are  curates  everywhere. 


THE    BETROTHED 


257 


Those  two  dear  women  might  come  now,  and  we  could  keep 
house  together.  Oh,  what  a  pleasure,  to  go  walking  all  to- 
gether on  this  very  road!  to  go  as  far  as  the  Adda,  in  a  cart, 
and  have  a  pic-nic  on  the  shore;  yes,  just  on  the  shore!  and 
I'd  show  them  the  place  where  I  embarked,  the  thorny  path 
I  came  down,  and  the  spot  where  I  stood  to  look  if  there  was 
a  boat! 

At  length  he  reached  his  cousin's  village;  and,  just  at  the 
entrance,  even  before  he  set  foot  in  it,  distinguished  a  house 
considerably  higher  than  the  rest,  with  several  rows  of  long 
windows,  one  above  another,  and  separated  by  a  much  smaller 
space  than  the  divisions  between  the  different  stories  required: 
he  at  once  recognized  a  silk-mill;  and  going  in,  asked,  in  a 
loud  voice,  so  as  to  be  heard  amid  the  noise  of  the  running 
water  and  the  machinery,  if  Bortolo  Castagneri  lived  there. 

''  The  Signor  Bortolo!     He's  there." 

The  Signor!  that's  a  good  sign — thought  Renzo;  and, 
seeing  his  cousin,  he  ran  toward  him.  Bortolo  turned  round, 
recognized  his  relation,  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Here  I  am,  my- 
self," and  received  him  with  an  **  Oh !  "  of  surprise,  as  they 
threw  their  arms  round  each  other's  necks.  After  the 
first  welcome,  Bortolo  took  his  cousin  into  another  room, 
apart  from  the  noise  of  the  machinery  and  the  eyes  of  the 
curious,  and  greeted  him  with,  "  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you ; 
but  you're  a  pretty  fellow.  I've  invited  you  so  often,  and  you 
never  would  come;  and  now  you  arrive  in  rather  a  troubled 
time." 

"  Since  you  will  have  me  tell  you,  I've  not  come  with  my 
own  good  will,"  said  Renzo;  and  then,  as  briefly  as  possible, 
and  not  without  some  emotion,  he  related  his  mournful  story. 

**  That's  quite  another  thing,"  said  Bortolo.  "  Oh,  poor 
Renzo!  But  you've  depended  upon  me;  and  I'll  not  forsake 
you.  Certainly,  there's  no  great  demand  for  workmen  just 
now;  indeed,  it's  all  we  can  do  not  to  turn  off  those  we  have, 
and  give  up  the  business;  but  my  master  likes  me,  and  he  has 
got  some  money.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  without  boast- 
ing, he  mostly  owes  it  to  me;  he  has  the  capital,  and  I  give 
my  abilities,  such  as  they  are.  I'm  the  head  workman,  you 
know;  and,  besides,  between  you  and  me,  I'm  quite  his  fac- 
totum. Poor  Lucia  Mondella!  I  remember  her  as  it  were 
but  yesterday:  a  good  girl  she  was!  always  the  best-behaved 
in  church;  and  whenever  one  passed  her  cottage.  ...  I  see 
that  cottage  in  my  mind's  eye,  outside  the  village,  with  a  fine 
fig-tree  peeping  over  the  wall  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no;  don't  let  us  talk  about  it." 
17 


258  MANZONI 

"  I  was  only  going  to  say,  that  whenever  one  passed  that 
cottage,  there  was  the  reel  always  going,  going,  going.  And 
that  Don  Rodrigo!  even  in  my  time  he  was  inclined  that  way; 
but  now  he's  playing  the  devil  outright,  from  what  I  hear,  so 
long  as  God  leaves  him  to  take  his  own  course.  Well,  as  I 
was  saying,  here,  too,  we  are  suffering  a  little  from  the  famine 
.  .  .  .  Apropos,  how  are  you  for  appetite?" 

"  I  got  something  to  eat,  a  little  while  ago,  on  the  road." 

*'  And  how  are  you  for  money?  " 

Renzo  held  out  one  of  his  hands,  and  putting  it  to  his 
mouth,  gently  puft'ed  upon  it. 

''Never  mind,"  said  Bortolo;  "I've  plenty;  pluck  up 
heart,  for  I  hope  things  will  soon  change,  please  God;  and 
then  you  can  repay  me,  and  lay  up  also  a  little  for  yourself." 

**  I've  a  trifling  sum  at  home,  and  will  send  for  it." 

"  Very  well ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  you  may  depend  upon 
me.  God  has  given  me  wealth,  that  I  might  give  to  others; 
and  whom  should  I  serve  so  soon  as  my  own  relations  and 
friends?" 

"  I  said  I  should  be  provided  for!  "  exclaimed  Renzo, 
affectionately  pressing  his  good  cousin's  hand. 

"  Then,"  rejoined  his  companion,  "  they've  had  a  regular 
uproar  at  Milan!  I  think  they're  all  a  little  mad.  The  ru- 
mour had  already  reached  here;  but  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
things  a  little  more  particularly.  Ah!  we've  plenty  to  talk 
about.  Here,  however,  you  see,  we  go  about  it  more  quietly, 
and  do  things  with  rather  more  prudence.  The  city  pur- 
chased two  thousand  loads  of  corn,  from  a  merchant  who  lives 
at  Venice:  the  corn  came  from  Turkey;  but  when  life  de- 
pends upon  it,  such  things  are  not  looked  into  very  narrowly. 
See  now  what  this  occasioned:  the  governors  of  Verona 
and  Brescia  stopped  up  the  passes,  and  said,  '  No  corn  shall 
pass  this  w^ay.'  What  did  the  Bergamascans  do,  think  you? 
They  despatched  a  man  to  Venice,  who  knew  how  to  talk. 
The  messenger  went  off  in  haste,  presented  himself  to  the 
Doge,  and  asked  him  what  was  the  meaning  of  such  a  trick. 
And  such  a  speech  he  made!  they  say,  fit  to  be  printed.  What 
a  thing  it  is  to  have  a  man  who  knows  what  to  say!  An 
order  was  immediately  issued  for  the  free  transit  of  corn,  re- 
quiring the  governors  not  only  to  let  it  pass,  but  to  assist  in 
forwarding  it;  and  now  it  is  on  its  way.  There  is  provision 
also  for  the  surrounding  country.  Another  worthy  man  gave 
the  senate  to  understand  that  the  people  in  the  country  were 
starving;  and  they  have  ordered  them  four  thousand  bushels 
of  millet.     This  helps,  you  know,  to  make  bread.     And  then 


THE   BETROTHED  259 

I  needn't  say,  that  if  there  isn't  bread  for  us,  we  will  eat  meat. 
God  has  given  me  wealth,  as  I  told  you.  Now,  then,  I'll  take 
you  to  my  master:  I've  often  mentioned  you  to  him,  and  I 
know  he'll  welcome  you.  He's  a  Bergamascan  of  the  old 
sort,  and  a  kind-hearted  man.  Certainly,  he  doesn't  expect 
you  just  now;  but  when  he  hears  your  history  ....  And 
besides,  he  knows  how  to  value  good  workmen;  for  the  fam- 
ine must  come  to  an  end,  and  business  will  go  on.  But,  first 
of  all,  I  must  warn  you  of  one  thing.  Do  you  know  what 
they  call  us  Milanese,  in  this  country?" 

"No;  what  is  it?" 

"  They  call  us  blockheads." 

"  That's  not  a  very  nice  name." 

**  So  it  is:  whoever  is  born  in  the  territory  of  Milan,  and 
would  make  a  living  in  that  of  Bergamo,  must  be  content  to 
bear  it  patiently.  It  is  as  common,  among  these  people,  to 
give  the  name  *  blockhead '  to  a  Milanese,  as  '  your  illustrious 
lordship  '  to  a  cavalier." 

"  They  only  say  so,  I  fancy,  to  those  who  will  put  up 
with  it."  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  if  you  are  not  disposed  continually  to 
brook  the  title,  don't  reckon  that  you  can  live  here.  You 
would  be  obliged  always  to  have  a  knife  in  your  hand;  and 
when  you  have  killed,  we  will  suppose,  two,  three,  or  four, 
of  your  neighbours,  you'd  meet  with  somebody  who  would 
kill  you;  and  what  a  nice  prospect,  to  have  to  appear  before 
God's  tribunal  with  three  or  four  murders  on  your  head!  " 

"  And  a  Milanese  who  has  a  little  .  .  .  ."  here  he  tapped 
his  forehead  with  his  forefinger,  as  he  had  before  done  at  the 
sign  of  the  Full  Moon.  "  I  mean,  one  who  understands  his 
business?  " 

"  It's  all  the  same;  he,  too,  would  be  a  blockhead.  Do 
you  know  what  my  master  says  when  he's  talking  of  me  to 
his  friends?  *  Heaven  has  sent  me  this  blockhead,  to  conduct 
my  business;  if  it  were  not  for  this  blockhead,  I  should  do 
very  badly.'     It's  the  custom  to  say  so." 

"  It's  a  very  foolish  custom,  especially  considering  what 
we  do;  for  who  was  it,  in  fact,  that  brought  the  art  here,  and 
now  carries  it  on,  but  us?    Is  it  possible  there's  no  help  for  it?  " 

"  Not  hitherto ;  there  may  be,  in  the  course  of  time,  among 
the  young  people  who  are  growing  up;  but  in  this  generation 
there  is  no  remedy;  they've  acquired  the  habit,  and  won't 
leave  it  off.  After  all,  what  is  it?  It's  nothing  to  the  tricks 
they've  played  upon  you,  and  that  most  of  our  precious  fellow- 
countrymen  would  still  play  upon  you." 


25o  MANZONI 

"  Well,  that's  true:  if  there's  no  other  evil  .  .  .  ." 
"  Now  that  you  are  persuaded  of  this,  all  will  go  well. 
Come,  let  us  go  to  my  master,  and  be  of  good  heart." 

Everything,  in  fact,  did  go  well,  and  so  exactly  in  accord- 
ance with  Bortolo's  promises,  that  it  is  needless  to  give  any 
particular  description.  And  it  was  truly  an  ordering  of  Provi- 
dence; for  we  shall  soon  see  how  little  dependence  was  to  be 
placed  upon  the  small  savings  Renzo  had  left  at  home. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THAT  same  day,  the  13th  of  November,  an  express  ar- 
rived to  the  Signor  Podesta  of  Lecco,  and  presented 
him  with  a  despatch  from  the  Signor  the  high  sheriff, 
containing  an  order  to  make  every  possible  strict  in- 
vestigation, to  ascertain  whether  a  certain  young  man,  bear- 
ing the  name  of  Lorenzo  Tramaghno,  silk-weaver,  who  had 
escaped  from  the  hands  prsedicti  egregii  domini  capitanei,  had 
returned,  palam  vel  clam,  to  his  own  country,  ignotum  the 
exact  village,  verum  in  territorio  Leuci:  quod  si  compertum 
fuerit  sic  esse,  the  Signor  Podesta  must  endeavour,  quanta 
maxima  diligentia  fieri  poterit,  to  get  him  into  his  hands;  and 
having  sufficiently  secured  him,  videlicet,  with  strong  hand- 
cuffs (seeing  that  the  insufficiency  of  smaller  manacles  for  the 
afore-mentioned  person  has  been  proved),  must  cause  him 
to  be  conducted  to  prison,  and  there  detained  under  strong 
custody,  until  he  be  consigned  to  the  officer,  who  shall  be  sent 
to  take  him:  and  in  case  either  of  success,  or  non-success, 
accedatis  ad  domum  prsedicti  Laurentii  Tramalini;  et  facta 
debita  diligentia,  quid  quid  ad  rem  repertum  fuerit  auferatis; 
et  informationes  de  illius  prava  qualitate,  vita,  et  complicibus, 
sumatis;  and  of  all  his  sayings  and  doings,  what  is  found  and 
not  found,  what  is  taken  and  not  taken,  diligenter  referatis. 
After  humanely  assuring  himself  that  the  object  of  inquiry 
had  not  returned  home,  the  Signor  Podesta  summoned  the 
village  constable,  and  under  his  direction,  proceeded,  with  a 
large  retinue  of  notaries  and  bailififs,  to  the  above-mentioned 
house.  The  door  was  locked,  and  either  no  one  had  the  key, 
or  he  was  not  to  be  found.  They,  therefore,  forced  the  locks 
with  all  due  and  praiseworthy  zeal,  which  is  equivalent  to  say- 
ing that  they  proceeded  as  if  taking  a  city  by  assault.  The 
report  of  this  expedition  immediately  spread  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  reached  the  ears  of  Father  Cristoforo,  who,  no 
less  astonished  than  grieved,  sought  for  some  information  as 
to  the  cause  of  so  unexpected  an  event,  from  everybody  he 
m.et  with;  he  could  only,  however,  gather  airy  conjectures, 

261 


262  MANZONI 

and  contradictory  reports:  and,  at  last,  therefore,  wrote  to 
Father  Bonaventura,  from  whom  he  imagined  he  should  be 
able  to  acquire  some  more  precise  information.  In  the  mean- 
while, Renzo's  relations  and  friends  were  summoned  to  de- 
pose all  they  knew  about  his  depraved  habits:  to  bear  the  name 
of  Tramaglino  became  a  misfortune,  a  disgrace,  a  crime;  and 
the  village  was  quite  in  a  commotion.  By  degrees,  it  became 
known  that  Renzo  had  escaped  from  the  hands  of  justice  dur- 
ing the  disturbance  at  Milan,  and  had  not  since  been  seen. 
It  was  whispered  about  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  some  high 
crime  and  misdemeanour,  but  what  it  was  no  one  could  tell, 
or  they  told  it  in  a  hundred  different  ways.  The  more  heinous 
the  offence  with  which  he  was  charged,  the  less  was  it  be- 
lieved in  the  village,  where  Renzo  was  universally  known  as 
an  honest,  respectable  youth;  and  many  conjectured  and 
spread  the  report,  that  it  was  merely  a  machination  set  on 
foot  by  the  powerful  Don  Rodrigo,  to  bring  about  the  ruin  of 
his  unfortunate  rival.  So  true  is  it  that,  judging  only  by  in- 
duction, and  without  the  necessary  knowledge  of  facts,  even 
the  greatest  villains  are  sometimes  wrongfully  accused. 

But  we,  who  have  the  facts  in  our  possession,  as  the  saying 
is,  can  affirm  that,  if  Don  Rodrigo  had  had  no  share  in  Ren- 
zo's  misfortunes,  yet  that  he  rejoiced  in  them  as  if  they  had 
been  his  own  work,  and  triumphed  over  them  among  his  con- 
fidants, especially  with  Count  Attilio.  This  friend,  according 
to  his  first  intention,  should  have  been,  by  this  time,  at  Milan ; 
but,  on  the  first  announcement  of  the  disturbances  that  had 
arisen  there,  and  of  the  rabble  whom  he  might  encounter  in 
a  far  different  mood  than  tamely  to  submit  to  a  beating,  he 
thought  it  expedient  to  postpone  his  journey  until  he  received 
better  accounts;  and  the  more  so,  because  having  offended 
many  he  had  good  reason  to  fear  that  some  who  had  re- 
mained passive  only  from  impotency,  might  now  be  encour- 
aged by  circumstances,  and  judge  it  a  favourable  opportunity 
for  taking  their  revenge.  The  journey,  however,  was  not 
long  delaved;  the  order  despatched  from  Milan  for  the  exe- 
cution against  Renzo  had  already  given  some  indication  that 
things  had  returned  to  their  ordinary  course,  and  the  positive 
notices  which  followed  quick  upon  it,  confirmed  the  truth  of 
these  appearances.  Count  Attilio  set  off  immediately,  enjoin- 
ing his  cousin  to  persist  in  his  undertaking  and  bring  it  to 
an  issue,  and  promising,  on  his  part,  that  he  would  use  every 
means  to  rid  him  of  the  friar,  to  whom  the  fortunate  accident 
of  his  cousin's  beggarly  rival  would  be  a  wonderful  blow. 
Scarcely  had  Attilio  gone,  when  Griso  arrived  safe  and  sound 


THE   BETROTHED  263 

from  Monza,  and  related  to  his  master  what  he  had  been  able 
to  gather:  that  Lucia  had  found  refuge  in  such  a  monastery, 
under  the  protection  of  the  Signora  So-and-so;  that  she  was 
concealed  there  as  if  she  were  a  nun  herself,  never  setting  foot 
outside  the  threshold,  and  assisting  at  the  services  of  the 
church  behind  a  little  grated  window:  an  arrangement  which 
was  unsatisfactory  to  many  who,  having  heard  some  mention 
of  her  adventures,  and  great  reports  of  her  beauty,  were  anx- 
ious, for  once,  to  see  what  she  was  like. 

This  account  inspired  Don  Rodrigo  with  every  evil  passion, 
or,  to  speak  more  truly,  rendered  still  more  ungovernable  those 
with  which  he  was  already  possessed.  So  many  circumstances 
favourable  to  his  design  had  only  further  inflamed  that  mix- 
ture of  punctilio,  rage,  and  infamous  desire  of  which  his  pas- 
sion was  composed.  Renzo  absent,  banished,  outlawed — so 
that  any  proceedings  against  him  became  lawful;  and  even 
that  his  betrothed  bride  might  be  considered,  in  a  measure,  as 
the  property  of  a  rebel :  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  would 
and  could  interest  himself  in  her,  and  make  a  stir  that  would 
be  noticed  in  headquarters,  and  at  a  distance — the  enraged 
friar — would  himself,  probably,  be  soon  incapable  of  acting 
for  her.  Yet  here  was  a  new  impediment,  which  not  only  out- 
weighed all  these  advantages,  but  rendered  them,  it  might 
be  said,  unavailing.  A  monastery  at  Monza,  even  had  there 
not  been  a  princess  in  the  way,  was  a  bone  too  hard  even  for 
the  teeth  of  a  Rodrigo;  and  wander  in  his  fancy  round  this 
retreat  as  he  would,  he  could  devise  no  way  or  means  of  as- 
saulting it,  either  by  force  or  fraud.  He  was  almost  resolved 
to  give  up  the  enterprise,  to  go  to  Milan  by  a  circuitous  route, 
so  as  to  avoid  passing  through  Monza,  and  there  to  plunge 
himself  into  the  society  of  his  friends,  and  their  recreations, 
so  as  to  drown,  in  thoughts  of  gaiety,  the  one  idea  which  had 
now  become  so  tormenting.  But,  but,  but,  his  friends! — 
softly  a  little  with  these  friends.  Instead  of  diverting  his 
mind,  he  might  reasonably  expect  to  find  in  their  company  an 
incessant  renewal  and  memento  of  his  vexation:  for  Attilio 
would  certainly  have  published  the  affair,  and  put  them  all  in 
expectation.  Everybody  would  make  inquiries  about  the 
mountain  girl,  and  he  must  give  some  answer.  He  had  wished, 
he  had  tried;  and  how  had  he  succeeded?  He  had  engaged 
in  an  undertaking — rather  an  unworthy  one,  certainly;  but 
what  of  that?  One  cannot  always  regulate  one's  caprices; 
the  point  is  to  satisfy  them;  and  how  had  he  come  off  in  'the 
enterprise?  How?  Put  down  by  a  peasant  and  a  friar! 
Ugh!  and  when  an  unexpected  turn  of  good  fortune  had  rid 


264 


MANZONI 


him  of  one,  and  a  skilful  friend  of  the  other,  without  any 
trouble  on  the  part  of  the  principal  person  concerned,  he,  like 
a  fool,  knew  not  how  to  profit  by  the  juncture,  and  basely 
withdrew  from  the  undertaking!  It  would  be  enough  to  make 
him  never  again  dare  to  hold  up  his  head  among  men  of 
spirit,  or  compel  him  always  to  keep  his  hand  on  his  sword. 
And  then,  again,  how  could  he  ever  return  to,  how  ever  re- 
main in,  that  village,  and  that  country,  where,  let  alone  the 
incessant  and  bitter  remembrances  of  his  passion,  he  should 
always  bear  about  with  him  the  disgrace  of  its  failure?  where 
public  hatred  would  have  increased,  while  his  reputation  for 
power  and  superiority  would  have  proportionably  diminished? 
where  he  might  read  in 'the  face  of  every  ragamuffin,  even 
through  the  veil  of  profound  reverences,  a  galling  "  You've 
been  gulleid^,  a^d.  I'm  glad  of  it!  "  The  path  of  iniquity,  as  our 
manuscript  here  rfemarks,  is  broad,  but  that  does  not  mean 
that  it  is  easy ;  it  has  "its  stumblipg-t)locks,  and  its  thorns,  and 
its  course  is  tedious  and  wearisome,  though  it  be  a  downward 
course.  -  n. 

In  this  perplexity,  unwilling  either  to  give  up  his  purpose, 
to  go  back,  or  to  stop,  and  unable  by  himself  to  go  forward, 
a  plan  occurred  to  Don  Rodrigo's  mind,  by  which  he  hoped 
to  effect  his  design.  That  was  to  take  as  a  partner  and  as- 
sistant in  his  enterprise,  one  whose  hands  could  often  reach 
beyond  the  views  of  others — a  man  at  once,  and  devil,  to  whom 
the  dif^culty  of  an  undertaking  was  frequently  an  incentive 
to  engage  in  it.  But  this  course  also  had  its  inconveniences 
and  its  dangers;  the  more  pressing,  the  less  they  could  be 
calculated  upon  beforehand;  since  it  was  impossible  to  foresee 
where  one  might  be  led,  when  once  embarked  in  an  affair  with 
this  man:  a  powerful  auxiliary,  certainly,  but  a  not  less  abso- 
lute and  dangerous  guide. 

These  thoughts  kept  Don  Rodrigo  for  several  days  in  a 
state  of  worse  than  tedious  perplexity.  In  the  mean  while,  a 
letter  arrived  from  his  cousin,  informing  him  that  the  plot 
against  the  friar  was  going  on  very  well.  Following  close 
vipon  the  lightning  bursts  forth  the  thunderclap.  One  fine 
morning,  Don  Rodrigo  heard  that  Father  Cristoforo  had  left 
the  convent  at  Pescarenico.  This  success,  so  prompt,  and  so 
complete,  together  with  Attilio's  letter,  encouraging  him  on- 
ward, and  threatening  him  with  intolerable  ridicule  if  he  with- 
drew, inclined  Don  Rodrigo  still  more  to  hazard  everything 
rather  than  give  up;  but  that  which  finally  decided  him,  was 
the  unexpected  news  that  Agnese  had  returned  home,  thus 
removing  one  obstacle  from  around  Lucia.     We  will  relate 


THE   BETROTHED  265 

how  these  two  circumstances  were  brought  about,  beginning 
with  the  last. 

The  two  unfortunate  women  were  scarcely  settled  in  their 
retreat,  when  the  report  of  the  disturbances  in  Milan  spread 
rapidly  over  Monza,  and,  consequently,  through  the  monas- 
tery; and  following  the  grand  news,  came  an  infinite  succes- 
sion of  particulars,  which  multiplied  and  varied  every  moment. 
The  portress,  situated  just  between  the  street  and  the  monas- 
tery, was  the  channel  of  information  both  from  within  and 
from  without,  and,  eagerly  receiving  these  reports,  retailed 
them  at  will  to  her  guests.  "  Two,  six,  eight,  four,  seven,  had 
been  imprisoned;  they  would  hang  them,  some  before  the 
bakehouse  of  the  Crutches,  some  at  the  end  of  the  street  where 
the  Superintendent  of  provisions  lived.  .  .  .  Ay,  ay,  just  listen, 
now! — one  of  them  escaped — a  man  somewhere  from  Lecco, 
or  thereabouts.  I  don't  know  the  name;  but  some  one  will 
be  passing  who  will  be  able  to  tell  me,  to  see  if  you  know 
him." 

This  announcement,  together  with  the  circumstance  that 
Renzo  would  just  have  arrived  at  Milan  on  the  fatal  day,  oc- 
casioned a  good  deal  of  disquietude  to  the  women,  and  espe- 
cially to  Lucia;  but  what  must  it  have  been,  when  the  portress 
came  to  tell  them — ''  It  is  a  man  from  your  very  village  who 
has  escaped  being  hung — a  silk-weaver,  of  the  name  of  Tra- 
maglino;  do  you  know  him?" 

Lucia,  who  was  sitting  hemming  some  needlework,  imme- 
diately let  it  fall  from  her  hands;  she  became  extremely  pale, 
and  changed  countenance  so  much,  that  the  portress  would 
certainly  have  observed  it,  had  she  been  nearer  to  her.  For- 
tunately, however,  she  was  standing  at  the  door  with  Agnese, 
who,  though  much  disturbed,  yet  not  to  such  a  degree  as  her 
daughter,  preserved  a  calm  countenance,  and  forced  herself 
to  reply,  that  in  a  little  village,  everybody  knew  everybody; 
that  she  was  acquainted  with  him,  and  could  scarcely  bring 
herself  to  believe  that  anything  of  the  kind  had  happened  to 
him,  he  was  so  peaceable  a  youth.  She  then  asked  if  it  was 
known  for  certain  that  he  had  escaped,  and  whither. 

"  Every  one  says  he  has  escaped,  where  to,  they  cannot  say; 
it  may  be  they  will  catch  him  again,  or  it  may  be  he  is  in 
safety;  but  if  they  do  get  hold  of  him,  your  peaceable 
youth  .  .  .  ." 

Fortunately,  at  this  juncture,  the  portress  was  called  away, 
and  left  them — the  reader  may  imagine  in  what  state  of  mind. 
For  more  than  a  day  were  the  poor  woman  and  her  afiflicted 
daughter  obliged  to  remain  in  this  painful  suspense,  imagin- 


266  MANZONI 

ing  the  causes,  ways,  and  consequences,  of  this  unhappy  event, 
and  commenting,  in  their  own  minds,  or  in  a  low  voice  with 
each  other,  on  the  terrible  words  their  informer  had  left  un- 
finished. 

At  length,  one  Thursday,  a  man  arrived  at  the  monastery 
in  search  of  Agnese.  It  was  a  fishmonger,  of  Pescarenico, 
going  to  Milan,  as  usual,  to  dispose  of  his  fish;  and  the  good 
Father  Cristoforo  had  requested  him,  in  passing  through 
Monza,  to  call  in  at  the  monastery,  to  greet  the  women  in  his 
name,  to  tell  them  all  he  knew  about  this  sad  affair  of  Renzo's, 
to  beseech  them  to  have  patience,  and  put  their  trust  in  God; 
and  to  assure  them  that  he  would  certainly  not  forget  them, 
but  would  watch  his  opportunity  for  rendering  them  assist- 
ance; and,  in  the  mean  time,  would  not  fail  to  send  them  all 
the  new^s  he  could  collect  every  week,  either  by  this  m.eans, 
or  a  similar  one.  The  messenger  could  tell  nothing  new  or 
certain  about  Renzo,  except  of  the  execution  put  into  his 
house,  and  the  search  that  was  being  made  for  him;  but,  at 
the  same  time,  that  this  had  been  hitherto  in  vain,  but  that  it 
was  known  for  certain  that  he  had  reached  the  territory  of 
Bergamo.  Such  a  certainty,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say,  was  a 
balm  to  poor  Lucia's  wounded  heart :  from  that  time  her  tears 
flowed  more  freely  and  calmly ;  she  felt  more  comforted  in  her 
secret  bursts  of  feeling  with  her  mother;  and  expressions  of 
thankfulness  began  to  be  mingled  with  her  prayers. 

Gertrude  frequently  invited  her  into  her  private  apartment, 
and  sometimes  detained  her  there  a  long  while,  feeling  a  pleas- 
ure in  the  ingenuousness  and  gentleness  of  the  poor  girl,  and 
in  hearing  the  thanks  and  blessings  she  poured  upon  her  bene- 
factress. She  even  related  to  her,  in  confidence,  a  part  (the 
blameless  part)  of  her  history,  and  of  what  she  had  suffered, 
that  she  might  come  there  to  suffer,  till  Lucia's  first  suspicious 
astonishment  gradually  changed  to  compassion.  In  that  his- 
tory she  found  reasons  more  than  enough  to  explain  what  she 
thought  rather  strange  in  the  behaviour  of  her  patroness,  es- 
pecially when  she  brought  in  to  her  aid  Agnese's  doctrine 
about  the  characters  of  the  nobility.  Nevertheless,  though 
sometimes  induced  to  return  the  confidence  which  Gertrude 
reposed  in  her,  yet  she  carefully  avoided  any  mention  of  her 
fresh  causes  of  alarm,  of  her  new  misfortune,  and  of  the  ties 
which  bound  her  to  the  escaped  silk-weaver,  lest  she  should 
run  any  risk  of  spreading  a  report  so  full  of  shame  and  sorrow. 
She  also  parried,  to  the  best  of  her  ability,  all  Gertrude's  in- 
quisitive questions  about  herself  previous  to  her  betrothal, 
but  this  was  not  so  much  from  prudential  motives,  as  because 


THE   BETROTHED  267 

such  an  account  appeared  to  the  simple-minded  girl  more  per- 
plexing, more  difficult  to  relate,  than  all  she  had  heard,  or 
thought  it  possible  to  hear,  from  the  Signora.  In  the  history 
of  that  lady  there  were  oppression,  intrigue,  suffering — sad 
and  mournful  things,  which,  nevertheless,  could  be  named; 
in  her  own  there  was  a  pervading  sentiment,  a  word,  which  she 
did  not  feel  it  possible  to  pronounce,  when  speaking  of  her- 
self, and  as  a  substitute  for  which  she  could  never  find  a  peri- 
phrasis that  did  not  seem  to  her  mind  indelicate:  love! 

Gertrude  was  sometimes  tempted  to  be  angry  at  these  re- 
pulses; but  there  always  appeared  behind  them  so  much  affec- 
tion, so  much  respect,  so  much  gratitude,  and  even  so  much 
trustfulness!  Sometimes,  perhaps,  that  modesty,  so  delicate, 
sensitive,  and  mysterious,  displeased  her  still  more  on  another 
account;  but  all  was  quickly  forgotten  in  the  soothing  thought 
that  every  moment  recurred  to  her  mind  when  contemplating 
Lucia,  "1  am  doing  her  good."  And  this  was  true;  for,  be- 
sides the  asylum  she  had  provided,  these  conversations  and 
her  familiar  treatment  were  some  comfort  to  Lucia.  The  poor 
girl  also  found  another  satisfaction  in  constant  employment; 
she  always  petitioned  for  something  to  do,  and  when  she  went 
into  the  Signora's  parlour,  generally  took  a  little  needlework 
with  her,  to  keep  her  fingers  employed;  but  what  melancholy 
thoughts  crowded  her  mind,  wherever  she  went !  While  plying 
her  needle, — an  occupation  to  which  hitherto  she  had  given 
little  attention, — her  reel  constantly  presented  itself  to  her 
view;   and  with  the  reel,  how  many  other  things! 

The  second  Thursday,  the  same,  or  another  messenger 
arrived,  bringing  salutations  and  encouragement  from  Father 
Cristoforo,  and  an  additional  confirmation  of  Renzo's  escape; 
but  no  more  positive  information  about  his  misfortunes.  Tli^ 
reader  may  remember  that  the  Capuchin  had  hoped  for  some 
account  from  his  brother-friar  at  Milan,  to  whom  he  had 
given  Renzo  a  letter  of  recommendation;  he  only  replied, 
however,  that  he  had  seen  neither  letter  nor  person:  that  a 
stranger  from  the  country  had  certainly  been  to  the  convent 
in  search  of  him,  but  finding  him  out,  had  gone  away,  and  had 
not  again  made  his  appearance. 

The  third  Thursday,  no  messenger  came;  which  was  not 
only  depriving  the  poor  women  of  an  anticipated  and  hoped- 
for  source  of  consolation;  but,  as  it  usually  happens  on  every 
trifling  occasion  to  those  in  sorrow  and  suspense,  was  also  a 
subject  of  much  disquietude,  and  a  hundred  tormenting  sus- 
picions. Agnese  had,  for  some  time,  been  contemplating  a 
visit  to  her  native  village,  and  this  unexpected  non-appearance 


268  MANZONI 

of  the  promised  messenger  determined  her  upon  taking  such 
a  step.  Lucia  felt  very  strange  at  the  thought  of  being  left 
without  the  shelter  of  her  mother's  wing;  but  the  longing 
desire  she  felt  to  know  something,  and  her  sense  of  security 
in  that  guarded  and  sacred  asylum,  conquered  her  great  un- 
willingness; and  it  was  arranged  between  them  that  Agnese 
should  watch  in  the  street  the  following  day  for  the  fish- 
monger, who  must,  necessarily,  pass  that  way  on  his  return 
from  Milan,  and  that  she  would  ask  him  to  be  so  good  as  to 
give  her  a  seat  in  his  cart,  to  take  her  to  her  own  mountains. 
She  met  with  him,  accordingly,  and  asked  if  Father  Cristoforo 
had  given  him  no  commission  for  her.  The  fishmonger  said, 
that  he  had  been  out  fishing  the  whole  day  before  his  de- 
parture, and  had  received  neither  news  nor  message  from  the 
Father.  Agnese  then  made  her  request,  which  being  granted 
without  hesitation,  she  took  leave  of  the  Signora  and  her 
daughter,  with  many  tears ;  and  promising  to  send  them  some 
news  soon,  and  return  as  quickly  as  possible,  she  set  off. 

The  journey  was  performed  without  accident.  They 
passed  part  of  the  night  in  an  inn  on  the  roadside,  as  usual, 
and  setting  ofif  on  their  way  before  sunrise,  arrived  early  in 
the  morning  at  Pescarenico.  Agnese  alighted  on  the  little 
square  before  the  convent,  dismissed  her  conductor  with  many 
thanks;  and,  since  she  was  at  the  place,  determined,  before 
going  home,  to  see  her  benefactor,  the  worthy  friar.  She 
rang  the  bell ;  the  person  who  came  to  open  the  door  was  Fra 
Galdino,  the  nut-seeker. 

"  Oh,  my  good  woman,  what  wind  has  brought  you  here?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  Father  Cristoforo." 

"  Father  Cristoforo?     He's  not  here." 

"  Oh!  will  he  be  long  before  he  comes  back?" 

"  Long!  "  said  the  friar,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  so  as  al- 
most to  bury  his  shorn  head  in  his  hood. 

"  Where  has  he  gone?  '* 

"  To  Rimini." 

"To  ....   ?" 

"  To  Rimini." 

"  Where  is  that?  " 

"  Eh !  eh !  eh !  "  replied  the  friar,  vertically  waving  his  ex- 
tended hand  in  the  air,  to  signify  a  great  distance. 

"  Alas  me!     But  why  has  he  gone  away  so  suddenly?  " 

"  Because  the  Father  provincial  ordered  it." 

"  And  why  have  they  sent  him  away  at  all,  when  he  was 
doing  so  much  good  here?     Ah,  poor  me!  " 

"  If  superiors  were  obliged  to  render  a  reason  for  all  the 


THE   BETROTHED 


269 


orders  they  give,  where  would  be  our  obedience,  my  good 
woman?  " 

"  Yes;  but  this  is  m}^  ruin." 

"  This  is  the  way  it  will  be.  They  will  have  wanted  a  good 
preacher  at  Rimini  (there  are  some  everywhere,  to  be  sure, 
but  sometimes  they  want  a  particular  man,  on  purpose);  the 
Father  provincial  there  will  have  written  to  the  Father  pro- 
vincial here,  to  know  if  he  had  such  and  such  a  person:  and 
the  Father  provincial  will  have  said,  *  Father  Cristoforo  is  the 
man  for  him; '  as,  in  fact,  you  see  it  is." 

''  Oh,  poor  us!     When  did  he  go?  " 

"  The  day  before  yesterday." 

"  See  now;  if  I  had  only  done  as  I  first  wished,  and  come 
a  few  days  sooner!  And  don't  you  know  when  he  may  re- 
turn?    Can't  you  guess  at  all?" 

''  Eh,  my  good  woman!  Nobody  knows,  except  the  Fa- 
ther provincial,  if  even  he  does.  When  once  one  of  our 
preaching  friars  has  taken  the  wing,  one  can  never  foresee 
on  what  branch  he  will  finally  alight.  They  are  sought  after 
here,  and  there,  and  everywhere;  and  we  have  convents  in  all 
the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  Rest  assured,  Father  Cristo- 
foro will  make  a  great  noise  with  his  course  of  Lent  sermons, 
at  Rimini;  for  he  doesn't  always  preach  extempore,  as  he  did 
here,  that  the  poor  people  might  understand  him;  for  the  city 
pulpits  he  has  his  beautiful  written  sermons,  and  his  best 
robes.  The  fame  of  this  great  preacher  will  spread;  and  they 
may  ask  for  him  at  ....  I  don't  know  where.  Besides,  we 
ought  to  give  him  up;  for  we  live  on  the  charity  of  the  whole 
world,  and  it  is  but  just  that  we  should  serve  the  whole  world.'* 

''Oh  dear,  dear!"  again  cried  Agnese,  almost  weeping; 
"what  can  I  do  without  him?  He  is  like  a  father  to  us!  It 
is  the  undoing  of  us." 

"  Listen,  my  good  woman.  Father  Cristoforo  was  cer- 
tainly an  admirable  man;  but  we  have  others,  you  know,  full 
of  charity  and  ability,  and  who  know  how  to  deal  with  either 
rich  or  poor.  Will  you  have  Father  Atanasio?  or  Father 
Girolamo?  or  Father  Zaccaria?  Father  Zaccaria,  you  know, 
is  a  man  of  great  worth.  And  don't  you  wonder,  as  some 
ignorant  people  do,  that  he  is  so  thin,  and  has  such  a  weak 
voice,  and  such  a  miserable  beard:  I  don't  say  that  he  is  a 
good  preacher,  because  everybody  has  his  particular  gifts; 
but  he  is  just  the  man  to  give  advice,  you  know." 

"Oh  holy  patience!"  exclaimed  Agnese,  with  that  mix- 
ture of  gratitude  and  impatience  that  one  feels  at  an  offer  in 
which  there  is  more  good  nature  than  suitableness ;  "  what 


2  70 


MANZONI 


does  it  matter  to  me  what  a  man  is  or  is  not,  when  that  good 
man  who's  no  longer  here  was  he  who  knew  all  our  affairs, 
and  had  made  preparations  to  help  us?" 

"  Then  you  must  have  patience." 

"  I  know  that,"  replied  Agnese;  "  forgive  me  for  troubling 
you." 

"  Oh  don't  say  a  word,  my  good  woman ;  I  am  very  sorry 
for  you.  And  if  you  determine  upon  consulting  any  of  the 
Fathers,  the  convent  is  here,  and  won't  go  away.  I  shall  see 
you  soon,  when  I  collect  the  oil." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Agnese;  and  she  turned  toward  her 
little  village,  forlorn,  perplexed,  and  disconcerted,  like  a  blind 
man  who  has  lost  his  staff. 

Rather  better  informed  than  Fra  Galdino,  we  will  now  re- 
late how  things  had  really  happened.  Immediately  on  At- 
tilio's  arrival  at  Milan,  he  went,  as  he  had  promised  Don  Ro- 
drigo,  to  pay  a  visit  to  their  common  uncle  of  the  Privy-coun- 
cil. (This  was  a  committee,  composed,  at  that  time,  of  thirteen 
persons  of  rank,  with  whom  the  governor  usually  consulted, 
and  who,  w^hen  he  either  died  or  resigned  his  office,  tempo- 
rarily assumed  the  command.)  Their  uncle,  the  Count,  a 
robed  member,  and  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  Council,  enjoyed 
there  a  certain  authority;  but  in  displaying  this  authority,  and 
making  it  felt  by  those  around  him,  there  was  not  his  equal. 
Ambiguous  language,  significant  silence,  abrupt  pauses  in 
speaking,  a  wink  of  the  eye,  that  seemed  to  say,  "  I  may  not 
speak,"  flattery  without  promises,  and  formal  threatenings — • 
all  were  directed  to  this  end;  and  all,  more  or  less,  produced 
the  desired  effect;  so  that  even  the  positive  declaration,  ''  I 
can  do  nothing  in  this  business,"  pronounced  sometimes  in 
absolute  truth,  but  pronounced  so  that  it  was  not  believed, 
only  served  to  increase  the  idea,  and,  therefore,  the  reality,  of 
his  power:  like  the  japanned  boxes  which  may  still  be  occa- 
sionally seen  in  an  apothecary's  shop,  with  sundry  Arabic 
characters  stamped  upon  them,  actually  containing  nothing, 
yet  serving  to  keep  up  the  credit  of  the  shop.  That  of  the 
Count,  which  had  been  for  a  long  time  increasing,  by  very 
gradual  steps,  had,  at  last,  made  a  giant's  stride,  as  the  saying 
is,  on  an  extraordinary  occasion;  namely,  a  journey  to  Ma- 
drid, on  an  embassy  to  the  Court,  where  the  reception  that  he 
met  with  should  be  related  by  himself.  To  mention  nothing 
else,  the  Count  Duke  had  treated  him  with  particular  conde- 
scension, and  admitted  him  into  his  confidence  so  far  as  to 
have  asked  him,  in  the  presence,  he  might  say,  of  shalf  the 
Court,  how  he  liked  Madrid,  and  to  have  told  him,  another 


THE   BETROTHED 


271 


time,  when  standing  in  the  recess  of  a  window,  that  the  Ca- 
thedral of  Milan  was  the  largest  Christian  temple  in  the  King's 
dominions. 

After  paying  all  due  ceremony  to  his  uncle,  and  deliver- 
ing his  cousin's  compliments,  Attilio  addressed  him  with  a 
look  of  seriousness,  such  as  he  knew  how  and  when  to  as- 
sume: ''  I  think  I  am  only  doing  my  duty  without  betraying 
Rodrigo's  confidence,  when  I  acquaint  my  uncle  with  an  affair, 
which  unless  you  interfere,  may  become  serious,  and  produce 
consequences  .  .  .  ." 

"  One  of  his  usual  scrapes,  I  suppose?  " 

"  I  can  assure  you  that  the  fault  is  not  on  Rodrigo's 
side,  but  his  spirit  is  roused;  and,  as  I  said,  no  one  but  you 
can  .  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  let  us  hear,  let  us  hear." 

"  There  is  a  Capuchin  friar  in  that  neighbourhood,  who 
bears  a  grudge  against  my  cousin;  and  things  have  gone  to 
such  a  pitch  that  .  .  .  ." 

"  How  often  have  I  told  you  both  to  let  the  monks  fry 
their  own  fish?  It  is  quite  sufficient  for  those  to  have  to  do 
with  them  who  are  obliged  ....  whose  business  it  is  .  .  .  ." 
and  here  he  sighed.     ''  But  you  can  avoid  them  .  .  .  ." 

"  Signor  uncle,  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  that  Rodrigo  would 
have  let  them  alone,  had  it  been  possible.  It  is  the  friar  who 
is  determined  to  quarrel  with  him,  and  has  tried  in  every  way 
to  provoke  him." 

"'  What  the  ■'  ,;:^;.has  this  friar  to  do  with  my  nephew?  " 

"  First  of  all,  he  is  well  known  as  a  restless  spirit,  who 
prides  himself  upon  quarrelling  with  gentlemen.  This  fellow, 
too,  has  taken  under  his  protection  and  direction,  and  I  don't 
know  what  besides,  a  country  girl  of  the  village  whom  he  re- 
gards with  an  affection  ....  an  affection  ....  I  don't  say 
of  what  kind;  but  a  very  jealous,  suspicious,  and  sullen  af- 
fection." 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  Count,  and  a  ray  of  cunning 
intelligence  shot  across  the  depth  of  dulness  nature  had 
stamped  upon  his  countenance,  now,  however,  partially  veiled 
under  the  mask  of  a  politician. 

"  Now,  for  some  time,"  continued  Attilio,  "  this  friar  has 
taken  a  fancy  that  Rodrigo  has,  I  don't  know  what  designs 
upon  this  .  .  .  ." 

"  Taken  a  fancy,  eh,  taken  a  fancy?  I  know  the  Signor 
Don  Rodrigo  too  well;  and  it  needs  another  advocate  besides 
your  lordship  to  justify  him  in  these  matters." 

"  That  Rodrigo,  Signor  uncle,  may  have  had  some  idle 


2/2 


MANZONI 


jesting  with  this  girl,  when  he  met  her  on  the  road,  I  can 
easily  beheve:  he  is  young,  and  besides,  not  a  Capuchin:  but 
these  are  mere  nonsenses,  not  worth  mentioning  to  my  noble 
uncle:  the  serious  part  of  the  business  is,  that  the  friar  has 
begun  to  talk  to  Rodrigo  as  he  would  of  a  common  fellow, 
and  has  tried  to  instigate  all  the  country  against  him." 

"  And  the  other  friars?  " 

"  They  don't  meddle  with  it,  because  they  know  him  to 
be  a  hot-headed  fool,  and  bear  a  great  respect  to  Rodrigo; 
but,  on  the  other  side,  this  monk  has  great  reputation  among 
the  villagers  as  a  saint,  and  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  fancy  he  doesn't  know  that  Rodrigo  is  my  neph- 
ew ...  ." 

*'  Doesn't  he,  though?     It  is  just  this  that  urges  him  on- 
ward." 

"How?  how?" 

"  Because — and  he  scruples  not  to  publish  it — he  takes 
greater  delight  in  vexing  Rodrigo,  exactly  because  he  has  a 
natural  protector  of  such  authority  as  your  lordship;  he  laughs 
at  great  people  and  politicians,  and  says  that  the  cord  of  St. 
Francis  binds  even  swords  and  .  .  .  ." 

**  The  rash  villain!     What  is  his  name?'^ 

"  Fra  Cristoforo,  of  *  *  *,"  said  Attilio;  and  his  uncle, 
taking  a  tablet  from  his  desk,  and  considerably  incensed,  in- 
scribed within  it  the  unfortunate  name.  In  the  mean  while 
Attilio  continued :  "  This  fellow  has  always  had  such  a  dispo- 
sition :  his  former  life  is  well  known.  He  was  a  plebeian,  who 
possessed  a  little  money,  and  would,  therefore,  compete  with 
the  noblemen  of  his  country;  and  out  of  rage  at  not  being 
able  to  make  them  all  yield  to  him,  he  killed  one,  and  then 
turned  friar  to  escape  the  gallows." 

"  Bravo!  capital!  We  will  see,  we  will  see,"  exclaimed  the 
Count,  panting  and  puf!ing  with  an  important  air. 

"  Lately,"  continued  Attilio,  "  he  is  more  enraged  than 
ever,  because  he  has  failed  in  a  design  which  he  was  very 
eager  about;  and  from  this  my  noble  uncle  will  understand 
what  sort  of  man  he  is.  This  fellow  wanted  to  marry  his  pro- 
tegee; whether  to  remove  her  from  the  perils  of  the  world, 
you  understand,  or  whatever  it  might  be,  at  any  rate  he  was 
determined  to  marry  her;  and  he  had  found  the  ....  the 
man,  another  of  his  proteges,  a  person  whose  name  my  hon- 
oured uncle  may  not  improbably  have  heard;  for  I  dare  say 
the  Privy-council  have  had  some  transactions  with  this  worthy 
subject." 

"Who  is  he?" 


THE    BETROTHED  273 

"  A  silk-weaver,  Lorenzo  Tramaglino,  he  who  .  .  .  ." 

"Lorenzo  Tramaghno!"  exclaimed  his  uncle.  "Well 
done,  my  brave  friar!  Certainly  .  .  .  indeed  ....  he  had  a 
letter  for  a  ....  A  crime  that  ....  But  it  matters  not; 
very  well.  And  why  did  Don  Rodrigo  tell  me  nothing  of  all 
this;  but  let  things  go  so  far,  without  applying  to  one  who  is 
both  able  and  willing  to  direct  and  help  him?  " 

"  I  will  be  candid  with  you.  On  the  one  hand,  knowing 
how  many  intrigues  and  affairs  you  had  in  your  head  .  .  .  ." 
(here  his  uncle  drew  a  long  breath,  and  put  his  hand  to  his 
forehead,  as  if  to  intimate  the  fatigue  he  underwent  in  the  set- 
tlement of  so  many  intricate  undertakings),  "  he  felt  in  a 
manner  bound,"  continued  Attilio,  '*  not  to  give  you  any  ad- 
ditional trouble.  And  besides,  I  will  tell  you  the  whole:  from 
what  I  can  gather,  he  is  so  vexed,  so  angry,  so  annoyed  at 
the  insults  offered  him  by  this  friar,  that  he  is  more  desirous 
of  getting  justice  for  himself  by  summary  means,  than  of  ob- 
taining it  in  the  regular  way  of  prudence  by  the  assistance  of 
your  lordship.  I  have  tried  to  extinguish  the  flame;  but  see- 
ing things  taking  a  wrong  course,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to 
inform  your  lordship  of  everything,  who,  after  all,  is  the  head 
and  chief  prop  of  the  house  .  .  .  ." 

**  You  w^ould  have  done  better  to  have  spoken  a  little 
sooner." 

"True;  but  I  continued  to  hope  that  the  thing  would  die 
off  of  itself,  or  that  the  friar  would,  at  last,  come  to  his  senses, 
or  would,  perhaps,  leave  the  convent,  as  is  often  the  case 
among  the  monks,  who  are  one  day  here  and  another  there; 
and  then  all  would  have  been  quietly  ended.     But  .  .  .  ." 

"  Now  it  is  my  business  to  settle  it." 

"  So  I  have  thought.  I  said  to  myself:  The  Signor,  my 
uncle,  with  his  discretion  and  authority,  will  know  well  enough 
how  to  prevent  a  quarrel,  and  at  the  same  time  secure  Ro- 
drigo's  honour,  which  is  almost,  as  it  were,  his  own.  This 
friar,  thought  I,  is  always  boasting  of  the  girdle  of  St.  Fran- 
cis; but  to  employ  this  girdle  seasonably,  it  is  not  necessary 
to  have  it  always  buckled  round  one's  waist.  My  noble  uncle 
has  many  means  that  I  know  not  of:  I  only  know  that  the 
Father  provincial  has,  as  is  but  right,  a  great  respect  for  him; 
and  if  my  honoured  uncle  thought  that  the  best  course,  in 
this  instance,  Avould  be  to  give  the  friar  a  change  of  air;  two 
words  .  .  .  ." 

"  Your  lordship  will  be  pleased  to  leave  the  arrangement 
to  the  person  it  belongs  to,"  said  his  uncle,  rather  abruptly. 

"Oh,  certainly!"  exclaimed  Attilio,  with  a  toss  of  his 
18 


2/4 


MANZONI 


head,  and  a  disguised  smile  of  disdainful  compassion.  "  I  am 
not  intending  to  give  advice  to  your  lordship!  But  the  regard 
I  have  for  the  reputation  of  the  family  made  me  speak.  And 
I  am  afraid  I  have  been  guilty  of  another  error,"  added  he, 
with  a  thoughtful  air;  "  I  fear  I  have  wronged  Rodrigo  in 
your  lordship's  opinion.  I  should  have  no  peace  if  I  were  the 
cause  of  making  you  think  that  Rodrigo  had  not  all  the  con- 
fidence in  you,  and  all  the  submission  to  your  will,  that  he 
ought  to  have.  Believe  me,  Signor  uncle,  that,  in  this  in- 
stance, it  is  merely  .  .  .  ." 

"Come,  come;  you  two  won't  wrong  each  other,  if  you 
can  help  it;  you  will  be  always  friends,  till  one  of  you  becomes 
prudent.  Ever  getting  into  some  scrape  or  other,  and  ex- 
pecting me  to  settle  it:  for  ....  you  will  force  me  to  say 
so,  you  give  me  more  to  think  about,  you  two,  than  .  .  .  ." 
here  he  heaved  a  profound  sigh — "  all  these  blessed  affairs  of 
state." 

Attilio  made  a  few  more  excuses,  promises,  and  compli- 
ments, and  then  took  his  leave,  accompanied  by  a :  *'  Be  pru- 
dent," the  Count's  usual  form  of  dismissal  to  his  nephews. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

IF  a  weed  be  discovered  in  a  badly  cultivated  field,  a  fine 
root  of  sorrel,  for  example,  and  the  spectator  wish  to  ascer- 
tain with  certainty  whether  it  has  sprung  up  from  seed 
either  ripened  in  the  field  itself,  or  wafted  thither  by  the 
wind,  or  dropped  there  by  a  bird  in  its  flight,  let  him  think  as 
he  will  about  it,  he  will  never  come  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion. 
For  the  same  reason  we  are  unable  to  decide  whether  the  reso- 
lution formed  by  the  Count  of  making  use  of  the  Father  pro- 
vincial to  cut  in  two,  as  the  best  and  easiest  method,  this  intri- 
cate knot,  arose  from  his  own  unassisted  imagination  or  from 
the  suggestions  of  Attilio.  Certain  it  is,  that  Attilio  had  not 
thrown  out  the  hint  unintentionally;  and  however  naturally 
he  might  expect  that  the  jealous  haughtiness  of  his  noble 
relative  would  recoil  at  so  open  an  insinuation,  he  was  deter- 
mined at  any  rate  to  make  the  idea  of  such  a  resource  flash 
before  his  eyes,  and  let  him  know  the  course  which  he  de- 
sired he  should  pursue.  On  the  other  hand,  the  plan  was  so 
exactly  consonant  with  his  uncle's  disposition,  and  so  natu- 
rally marked  out  by  circumstances,  that  one  might  safely  ven- 
ture the  assertion,  that  he  had  thought  of,  and  embraced  it, 
without  the  suggestion  of  any  one.  It  was  a  most  essential 
point  toward  the  reputation  of  power  which  he  had  so  much 
at  heart,  that  one  of  his  name,  a  nephew  of  his,  should  not  be 
worsted  in  a  dispute  of  such  notoriety.  The  satisfaction  that 
his  nephew  would  take  for  himself  would  have  been  a  remedy 
worse  than  the  disease,  a  foundation  for  future  troubles,  which 
it  was  necessary  to  overthrow  at  any  cost,  and  without  loss 
of  time.  Command  him  at  once  to  quit  his  palace,  and  he 
would  not  obey;  and,  even  should  he  submit,  it  would  be  a 
surrendering  of  the  contest,  a  submission  of  their  house  to 
the  superiority  of  a  convent.  Commands,  legal  force,  or  any 
terrors  of  that  nature,  were  of  no  value  against  an  adversary 
of  such  a  character  as  Father  Cristoforo :  the  regular  and  sec- 
ular clergy  were  entirely  exempt,  not  only  in  their  persons, 
but  in  their  places  of  abode,  from  all  lay  jurisdiction  (as  must 

275 


2^6 


MANZONI 


have  been  observed  even  by  one  who  has  read  no  other  story 
than  the  one  before  him);  otherwise  they  would  often  have 
fared  very  badly.  All  that  could  be  attempted  against  such 
a  rival  was  his  removal,  and  the  only  means  for  obtaining  this 
was  the  Father  provincial,  at  whose  pleasure  Father  Cristoforo 
was  either  stationary,  or  on  the  move. 

Between  this  Father  provincial  and  the  Count  of  the  Privy- 
council  there  existed  an  acquaintanceship  of  long  standing: 
they  seldom  saw  each  other,  but  whenever  they  met,  it  was 
with  great  demonstrations  of  friendship,  and  reiterated  offers 
of  service.  It  is  sometimes  easier  to  transact  business  advan- 
tageously with  a  person  who  presides  over  many  individuals 
than  with  only  one  of  those  same  individuals,  who  sees  but 
his  own  motives,  feels  but  his  own  passions,  seeks  only  his  own 
ends ;  while  the  former  instantly  perceives  a  hundred  relations, 
contingencies,  and  interests,  a  hundred  objects  to  secure  or 
avoid,  and  can,  therefore,  be  taken  on  a  hundred  different 
sides. 

When  all  had  been  well  arranged  in  his  mind,  the  Count 
one  day  invited  the  Father  provincial  to  dinner,  to  meet  a 
circle  of  guests  selected  with  superlative  judgment: — an  as- 
semblage of  men  of  the  highest  rank,  whose  family  alone  bore 
a  lofty  title,  and  who  by  their  carriage,  by  a  certain  native 
boldness,  by  a  lordly  air  of  disdain,  and  by  talking  of  great 
things  in  familiar  terms,  succeeded,  even  without  intending 
it,  in  impressing,  and,  on  every  occasion,  keeping  up,  the  idea 
of  their  superiority  and  power;  together  with  a  few  clients 
bound  to  the  house  by  an  hereditary  devotion,  and  to  its  head 
by  the  servitude  of  a  whole  life;  who,  beginning  with  the  soup 
to  say  "  yes,"  with  their  lips,  their  eyes,  their  ears,  their  head, 
their  whole  body,  and  their  whole  heart,  had  made  a  man,  by 
dessert-time,  almost  forget  how  to  say  "  no." 

At  table,  the  noble  host  quickly  turned  the  conversation 
upon  Madrid.  There  are  many  ways  and  means  of  accom- 
plishing one's  object,  and  he  tried  all.  He  spoke  of  the  court, 
the  Count  Duke,  the  ministers,  and  the  governor's  family; 
of  the  bull-baits,  which  he  could  accurately  describe,  having 
been  a  spectator  from  a  very  advantageous  post;  and  of  the 
Escurial,  of  which  he  could  give  a  minute  account,  because 
one  of  the  Count  Duke's  pages  had  conducted  him  through 
every  nook  and  corner  of  it.  For  some  time  the  company 
continued  like  an  audience,  attentive  to  him  alone;  but,  by 
degrees,  they  divided  into  small  groups  of  talkers,  and  he  then 
proceeded  to  relate  further  anecdotes  of  the  great  things  he 
had  seen,  as  in  confidence,  to  the  Father  provincial,  who  was 


THE   BETROTHED  277 

seated  near  him,  and  who  suffered  him  to  talk  on  without 
interruption.  But  at  a  certain  point  he  gave  a  turn  to  the 
conversation,  and,  leaving  Madrid,  proceeded  from  court 
to  court,  and  from  dignitary  to  dignitary,  till  he  had  brought 
upon  the  tapis  Cardinal  Barberini,  a  Capuchin,  and  brother 
to  the  then  reigning  Pope,  Urban  VIII.  The  Count  was  at 
last  obliged  to  cease  talking  for  a  while,  and  be  content 
to  listen,  and  remember  that,  after  all,  there  were  some 
people  in  the  world  who  were  not  born  to  live  and  act 
only  for  him.  Shortly  after  leaving  the  table,  he  requested 
the  Father  provincial  to  step  with  him  into  another  apart- 
ment. 

Two  men  of  authority,  age,  and  consummate  experience, 
now  found  themselves  standing  opposite  to  each  other.  The 
noble  lord  requested  the  reverend  Father  to  take  a  seat,  and, 
placing  himself  at  his  side,  began  as  follows,  "  Considering 
the  friendship  that  exists  between  us,  I  thought  I  might  ven- 
ture to  speak  a  word  to  your  Reverence  on  a  matter  of  mu- 
tual interest,  which  it  would  be  better  to  settle  between  our- 
selves, without  taking  any  other  courses,  which  might  .... 
But,  without  further  preface,  I  will  candidly  tell  you  to  what 
I  allude,  and  I  doubt  not  you  will  immediately  agree  with 
me.  Tell  me:  in  your  convent  of  Pescarenico  there  is  a  cer- 
tain Father  Cristoforo  of . . .  ?  " 

The  Provincial  bowed  assent. 

"  Your  Paternity  will  be  good  enough  then,  frankly,  like 
a  friend,  to  tell  me  .  .  .  this  person  .  .  .  this  Father  ...  I 
don't  know  him  personally;  I  am  acquainted  with  several 
Capuchin  fathers,  zealous,  prudent,  humble  men,  who  are 
worth  their  weight  in  gold:  I  have  been  a  friend  to  the  order 
from  my  boyhood  ....  But  in  every  rather  numerous  fam- 
ily ..  .  there  is  always  some  individual,  some  wild  .... 
And  this  Father  Cristoforo,  I  know  by  several  occurrences 
that  he  is  a  person  .  .  .  rather  inclined  to  disputes  .  .  .  who 
has  not  all  the  prudence,  all  the  circumspection  ....  I  dare 
say  he  has  more  than  once  given  your  Paternity  some  anx- 
iety." 

I  understand;  this  is  a  specimen,  thought  the  Provincial 
in  the  mean  time.  It  is  my  fault;  I  knew  that  that  blessed 
Cristoforo  was  fitter  to  go  about  from  pulpit  to  pulpit,  than 
to  be  set  down  for  six  months  in  one  place,  especially  in  a 
country  convent. 

"  Oh !  "  said  he  aloud,  "  I  am  really  sorry  to  hear  that 
your  Highness  entertains  such  an  opinion  of  Father  Cristo- 
foro; for,  as  far  as  I  know,  he  is  a  most  exemplary  monk  in 


278 


MANZONI 


the  convent,  and  is  held  in  much  esteem  also  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood." 

"  I  understand  perfectly;  your  Reverence  ought  .... 
However,  as  a  sincere  friend,  I  wish  to  inform  you  of  a  thing 
which  it  is  important  for  you  to  know;  and  even  if  you  are 
already  acquainted  with  it,  I  think,  without  exceeding  my 
duty,  I  should  caution  you  against  the  (I  only  say)  possible 
consequences.  Do  you  know  that  this  Father  Cristoforo  has 
taken  under  his  protection  a  man  of  that  country,  a  man  .  .  . 
of  whom  your  Paternity  has  doubtless  heard  mention;  him 
who  escaped  in  such  disgrace  from  the  hands  of  justice,  after 
having  done  things  on  that  terrible  day  of  St.  Martin  .  .  . 
things  .  .  .  Lorenzo  Tramaglino?" 

Alas! — thought  the  Provincial,  as  he  replied:  "This  par- 
ticular is  quite  new  to  me,  but  your  Highness  is  sufficiently 
aware  that  it  is  part  of  our  office  to  seek  those  who  have 
gone  astray,  to  recall  them  .  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes;  but  intercourse  with  oiTenders  of  a  certain 
kind!  ...  is  rather  a  dangerous  thing — a  very  delicate  af- 
fair .  .  .  ."  And  here,  instead  of  pufftng  out  his  cheeks  and 
panting,  he  compressed  his  lips,  and  drew  in  as  much  air  as 
he  was  accustomed  to  send  forth  with  such  profound  impor- 
tance. He  then  resumed:  "  I  thought  it  as  well  to  give  you 
this  hint,  because  if  ever  his  Excellency  ....  He  may  have 
had  some  business  at  Rome  ....  I  don't  know,  though  .  .  . 
and  there  might  come  to  you  from  Rome  .  .  .  ." 

*'  I  am  much  obliged  to  your  Lordship  for  this  informa- 
tion, but  I  feel  confident,  that  if  they  would  make  inquiries 
on  this  subject,  they  would  find  that  Father  Cristoforo  has  had 
no  intercourse  with  the  person  you  mention,  unless  it  be  to  try 
to  set  him  right  again.     I  know  Father  Cristoforo  well." 

"  You  know,  probably,  already,  better  than  I  do,  what 
kind  of  man  he  was  as  a  layman,  and  the  life  he  led  in  his 
youth." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  glories  of  our  habit,  Signor  Count,  that 
a  man  who  has  given  ever  so  much  occasion  in  the  world  for 
men  to  talk  about  him,  becomes  a  different  person  when  he 
has  assumed  this  dress.  And  ever  since  Father  Cristoforo  has 
worn  the  habit  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  would  gladly  believe  it,  I  assure  you — I  would  gladly 
believe  it;  but  sometimes  ...  as  the  proverb  says  .  .  .  .  '  It 
is  not  the  cowl  that  makes  the  friar.'  " 

The  proverb  was  not  exactly  to  the  purpose,  but  the  Count 
had  cited  it  instead  of  another,  which  had  crossed  his  mind: 
"  The  wolf  changes  its  skin,  but  not  its  nature." 


THE   BETROTHED 


279 


"  I  have  facts,"  continued  he;  "  I  have  positive  proofs  .  .  .  ." 

"  If  you  know  for  certain,"  interrupted  the  Provincial, 
"  that  this  friar  has  been  guilty  of  any  fault  (and  we  are  all 
liable  to  err),  you  will  do  me  a  favour  to  inform  me  of  it. 
I  am  his  superior,  though  unworthily;  but  it  is,  therefore,  my 
duty  to  correct  and  reprove." 

*'  I  will  tell  you;  together  with  the  unpleasing  circum- 
stance of  the  favour  this  Father  displays  toward  the  person 
I  have  mentioned;  there  is  another  grievous  thing,  which  may 
....  But  we  will  settle  all  this  between  ourselves  at  once. 
This  same  Father  Cristoforo  has  begun  a  quarrel  with  my 
nephew,  Don  Rodrigo  >;>'****" 

''  Indeed!  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it! — very  sorry  in- 
deed!" 

*'  My  nephew  is  young,  and  hot-tempered;  he  feels  what 
he  is,  and  is  not  accustomed  to  be  provoked  .  .  .  ." 

'*  It  shall  be  my  business  to  make  every  inquiry  on  the  sub- 
ject. As  I  have  often  told  your  Lordship,  and  as  you  must 
know,  with  your  great  experience  in  the  world,  and  your  noble 
judgment  far  better  than  I,  we  are  all  human,  and  liable  to 
err  .  .  .  some  one  way,  some  another;  and  if  our  Father 
Cristoforo  has  failed  .  .  .  ." 

"  Your  Reverence  must  perceive  that  these  are  matters,  as 
I  said,  which  had  better  be  settled  between  ourselves,  and 
remain  buried  with  us — things  which,  if  much  meddled  with, 
will  only  be  made  worse.  You  know  how  it  often  happens; 
these  strifes  and  disputes  frequently  originate  from  a  mere 
bagatelle,  and  become  more  and  more  serious  as  they  are 
suffered  to  proceed.  It  is  better  to  strike  at  the  root  before 
they  grow  to  a  head,  or  become  the  causes  of  a  hundred  other 
contentions.  Suppress  it,  and  cut  it  short,  most  reverend  Fa- 
ther; suppress,  and  cut  it  short.  My  nephew  is  young;  the 
monk,  from  what  I  hear,  has  still  all  the  spirit — all  the  .  .  . 
inclinations  of  a  young  man;  and  it  belongs  to  us  who 
have  some  years  on  our  shoulders — (too  many,  are  they  not, 
most  reverend  Father?)  it  belongs  to  us,  I  say,  to  have  judg- 
ment for  the  young,  and  try  to  remedy  their  errors.  For- 
tunately we  are  still  in  good  time:  the  matter  has  made  no 
stir;  it  is  still  a  case  of  a  good  principiis  obsta.  Let  us  re- 
move the  straw  from  the  flame.  A  man  who  has  not  done 
well,  or  who  may  be  a  cause  of  some  trouble  in  one  place, 
sometimes  gets  on  surprisingly  in  another.  Your  Paternity, 
doubtless,  knows  where  to  find  a  convenient  post  for  this 
friar.  This  will  also  meet  the  other  circumstance  of  his  hav- 
ing, perhaps,  fallen  under  the  suspicions  of  one  ....  who 


28o  MANZONI 

would  be  very  glad  that  he  should  be  removed;  and  thus,  by 
placing  him  at  a  little  distance,  we  shall  kill  two  birds  with 
one  stone;  all  will  be  quietly  settled,  or  rather,  there  will  be 
no  harm  done." 

The  Father  provincial  had  expected  this  conclusion  from 
the  beginning  of  the  interview.  Ay,  ay!  thought  he  to  him- 
self;— ^I  see  well  enough  what  you  would  bring  me  to.  It's 
the  usual  way;  if  a  poor  friar  has  an  encounter  with  you,  or 
with  any  one  of  you,  or  gives  you  any  offence,  right  or  wrong, 
the  Superior  must  make  him  march  immediately. 

When  the  Count  was  at  last  silent,  and  had  puffed  forth 
a  long-drawn  breath,  which  was  equivalent  to  a  full  stop :  "  I 
understand  very  well,"  said  the  Provincial,  *'  what  your  noble 
Lordship  would  say;  but  before  taking  a  step  .  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  a  step,  and  it  is  not  a  step,  most  reverend  Father. 
It  is  a  natural  thing  enough — a  very  common  occurrence; 
and  if  it  does  not  come  to  this,  and  quickly  too,  I  foresee  a 
mountain  of  disorders — an  Iliad  of  woes.  A  mistake  .... 
my  nephew,  I  do  not  believe  ....  I  am  here,  for  this  .... 
But,  at  the  point  at  which  matters  have  now  arrived,  if  we  do 
not  put  a  stop  to  it  between  ourselves,  without  loss  of  time, 
by  one  decided  blow,  it  is  not  possible  that  it  should  remain 
a  secret  ....  and  then,  it  is  not  only  my  nephew  ....  we 
raise  a  hornet's  nest,  most  reverend  Father.  You  know,  we 
are  a  powerful  family — we  have  adherents  .  .  .  ." 

"  Plainly  enough  .  .  .  ." 

"  You  understand  me :  they  are  all  persons  who  have  some 
blood  in  their  veins,  and  who  ....  count  as  somebody  in  the 
world.  Their  honour  will  come  in ;  it  will  become  a  common 
affair;  and  then  ....  even  one  who  is  a  friend  to  peace 
....  It  will  be  a  great  grief  to  me  to  be  obliged  ....  to 
find  myself  ....  I,  who  have  always  had  so  much  kind  feel- 
ing toward  the  Capuchin  Fathers!  You  reverend  Fathers,  to 
continue  to  do  good,  as  you  have  hitherto  done,  with  so  much 
edification  among  the  people,  stand  in  need  of  peace,  should 
be  free  from  strifes,  and  in  harmony  with  those  who  .... 
And,  besides,  you  have  friends  in  the  world  ....  and  these 
affairs  of  honour,  if  they  go  any  length,  extend  themselves, 
branch  out  on  every  side,  and  draw  in  ...  .  half  the  world. 
I  am  in  a  situation  which  obliges  me  to  maintain  a  certain 
dignity  ....  His  Excellency  ....  my  noble  colleagues 
.  .  .it  becomes  quite  a  party  matter  ....  particularly  with 
that  other  circumstance  ....  You  know  how  these  things 

go-" 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Father  provincial,  "  Father  Cristo- 


THE   BETROTHED  28 1 

foro  is  a  preacher;  and  I  had  already  some  thoughts  .... 
I  have  just  been  asked  ....  But  at  this  juncture,  and  under 
the  present  circumstances,  it  might  look  like  a  punishment; 
and  a  punishment  before  having  fully  ascertained  .  .  .  ." 

**  Pshaw!  punishment,  pshaw! — merely  a  prudential  ar- 
rangement— a  convenient  resource  for  preventing  evils  which 
might  ensue  ....  I  have  explained  myself." 

**  Between  the  Signor  Count  and  me  things  stand  in 
this  light,  I  am  aware;  but  as  your  Lordship  has  related  the 
circumstances,  it  is  impossible,  I  should  say,  but  that  some- 
thing is  known  in  the  country  around.  There  are  everywhere 
firebrands,  mischief-makers,  or,  at  least,  malicious  priers,  who 
take  a  mad  delight  in  seeing  the  nobility  and  the  religious 
orders  at  variance;  they  observe  it  immediately,  report  it, 
and  enlarge  upon  it  ...  .  Everybody  has  his  dignity  to 
maintain;  and  I  also,  as  Superior  (though  unworthily),  have 
an  express  duty  ....  The  honour  of  the  habit  ....  is  not 
my  private  concern  ....  it  is  a  deposit  of  which  .... 
Your  noble  nephew,  since  he  is  so  high-spirited  as  your  Lord- 
ship describes  him,  might  take  it  as  a  satisfaction  offered  to 
him,  and  ....  I  do  not  say  boast  of  it,  and  triumph  over 
him,  but  .  .  .  ." 

"  Is  your  Paternity  joking  with  me?  My  nephew  is  a 
gentleman  of  some  consideration  in  the  world  ....  that  is, 
according  to  his  rank  and  the  claims  he  has;  but  in  my  pres- 
ence he  is  a  mere  boy,  and  will  do  neither  more  nor  less  than 
I  bid  him.  I  will  go  further,  and  tell  you  that  my  nephew 
shall  know  nothing  about  it.  Why  need  we  give  any  account 
of  what  we  do?  It  is  all  transacted  between  ourselves,  as  old 
friends,  and  never  need  come  to  light.  Don't  give  yourself 
a  thought  about  this.  I  ought  to  be  accustomed  to  be  silent." 
And  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  ''  As  to  gossips,"  resumed  he, 
"what  do  you  suppose  they  can  say?  The  departure  of  a 
monk  to  preach  somewhere  else,  is  nothing  so  very  uncom- 
mon! And  then,  we  who  see  ....  we  who  foresee  .  .  .  . 
we  who  ought  ....  we  need  not  give  ourselves  any  concern 
about  gossipings." 

"  At  any  rate,  it  would  be  well  to  try  to  prevent  them 
on  this  occasion,  by  your  noble  nephew's  making  some  dem- 
onstration, giving  some  open  token  of  friendship  and  defer- 
ence .  .  .  not  for  our  sakes,  as  individuals,  but  for  the  sake  of 
the  habit  .  .  .  ." 

**  Certainly,  certainly,  this  is  but  fair  ....  However,  there 
is  no  need  of  it;  I  know  that  the  Capuchins  are  always  re- 
ceived as  they  ought  to  be  by  my  nephew.     He  does  so  from 


282  MANZONI 

inclination;  it  is  quite  the  disposition  of  the  family;  and  be- 
sides, he  knows  it  is  gratifying  to  me.  In  this  instance,  how- 
ever, .  .  .  something  more  marked  ....  is  only  right. 
Leave  me  to  settle  it,  most  reverend  Father;  I  will  order  my 
nephew  .  .  .  that  is,  I  must  cautiously  suggest  it  to  him,  lest 
he  should  suspect  what  has  passed  between  us.  It  would  not 
do,  you  know,  to  lay  a  plaster  where  there  is  no  wound. 
And  as  to  what  we  have  determined  upon,  the  quicker  the 
better.  If  you  can  find  some  post  at  a  little  distance  ...  to 
obviate  every  occasion  .  .  .  ." 

"I  have  just  been  asked  for  a  preacher  at  Rimini;  and 
perhaps,  even  without  any  other  reason,  I  should  have  thought 
of  .  .  .  ." 

"  Exactly  apropos,  exactly  apropos.     And  when  .  .  .   ?  " 

"  Since  the  thing  must  be  done,  it  had  better  be  done  at 
once." 

"  Directly,  directly,  most  reverend  Father;  better  to-day 
than  to-morrow.  And,"  continued  he,  as  he  rose  from  his 
seat,  **  if  I  can  do  anything,  I  or  my  friends,  for  our  worthy 
Capuchin  Fathers  .  .  .  ." 

**  We  know,  by  experience,  the  kindness  of  your  house," 
said  the  Father  provincial,  also  rising,  and  advancing  toward 
the  door,  behind  his  vanquisher. 

"  We  have  extinguished  a  spark,"  said  the  Count,  walk- 
ing slowly  forward;  ''a  spark,  most  reverend  Father,  which 
might  have  been  fanned  into  a  wide-spreading  and  dangerous 
flame.  Between  friends,  two  or  three  words  will  often  settle 
great  things." 

On  reaching  the  other  apartment,  he  threw  open  the  door, 
and  insisted  upon  the  Father's  first  entering:  then  following 
him  in,  they  mingled  with  the  rest  of  the  company. 

This  nobleman  employed  a  studied  politeness,  great  dex- 
terity, and  fine  words,  to  accomplish  his  designs;  and  they 
produced  corresponding  effects.  In  fact,  he  succeeded,  by  the 
conversation  we  have  related,  in  making  Father  Cristoforo 
go  on  foot  from  Pescarenico  to  Rimini,  which  is  a  very  toler- 
able distance. 

One  evening,  a  Capuchin  arrived  at  Pescarenico,  from 
Milan,  with  a  despatch  to  the  Father-guardian.  It  contained 
an  order  for  Father  Cristoforo  to  repair  at  once  to  Rimini, 
where  he  was  appointed  to  preach  the  course  of  Lent  Ser- 
mons. The  letter  to  the  guardian  contained  instructions  to 
insinuate  to  the  said  friar,  that  he  must  give  up  all  thoughts 
of  any  business  he  might  have  in  hand  in  the  neighbourhood 
he  was  about  to  leave,  and  was  not  to  keep  up  any  correspond- 


THE   BETROTHED  283 

ence  there:  the  bearer  would  be  his  companion  by  the  way. 
The  guardian  said  nothing  that  evening;  but  next  morning 
he  summoned  Father  Cristoforo,  showed  him  the  command, 
bade  him  take  his  wallet,  staff,  maniple,  and  girdle,  and,  with 
the  Father  whom  he  presented  to  him  as  a  companion,  imme- 
diately set  off  on  his  journey. 

What  a  blow  this  would  be  to  the  poor  friar,  the  reader 
must  imagine.  Renzo,  Lucia,  Agnese,  instantly  rushed  to  his 
mind;  and  he  exclaimed,  so  to  say,  to  himself:  Oh  my  God! 
what  will  these  poor  creatures  do,  when  I  am  no  longer  here! 
But  instantly  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  reproached  him- 
self for  want  of  faith,  and  for  having  supposed  that  he  was 
necessary  in  anything.  Hs  crossed  his  hands  on  his  breast, 
in  token  of  obedience  and  bowed  his  head  before  the  guard- 
ian, who,  taking  him  aside,  told  him  the  rest  of  the  message, 
adding  a  few  words  of  advice,  and  some  sensible  precepts. 
Father  Cristoforo  then  went  into  his  cell,  took  his  basket,  and 
placed  therein  his  breviary,  his  sermons,  and  the  bread  of  for- 
giveness, bound  round  his  waist  a  leathern  girdle,  took  leave 
of  his  brethren  whom  he  found  in  the  convent,  went  to  re- 
quest the  guardian's  blessing,  and  then,  with  his  companion, 
took  the  route  which  had  been  prescribed  for  him. 

We  have  said  that  Don  Rodrigo,  more  than  ever  resolved 
to  accomplish  his  praiseworthy  undertaking,  had  determined 
to  seek  the  assistance  of  a  very  formidable  character.  Of  this 
personage  we  can  give  neither  the  name,  surname,  nor  title, 
nor  can  we  even  venture  a  conjecture  on  any  one  of  them; 
which  is  the  more  remarkable,  as  we  find  mention  of  him  in 
more  than  one  published  book  of  those  times.  That  it  is  the 
same  personage,  the  identity  of  facts  leaves  no  room  for  doubt; 
but  everywhere  a  studious  endeavour  may  be  traced  to  conceal 
his  name,  as  if  the  mention  of  it  would  have  ignited  the  pen,  and 
scorched  the  writer's  hand.  Francesco  Rivola,  in  his  Life 
of  the  Cardinal  Federigo  Borromeo,  speaking  of  this  person, 
says,  "  A  nobleman,  as  powerful  by  wealth  as  illustrious  by 
birth,"  and  nothing  more.  Giuseppe  Ripamonti,  who,  in  the 
fifth  book  of  the  fifth  decade  of  his  Storia  Patria,  makes  more 
exclusive  mention  of  him,  describes  him  as  "  one,"  "  this  per- 
son," "  that  person,"  ''  this  man,"  "  that  personage."  "  I  will 
relate,"  says  he,  in  his  elegant  Latin,  which  we  translate  as 
follows — "  the  case  of  one,  who,  being  among  the  first  of  the 
great  men  of  the  city,  took  up  his  residence  in  the  country; 
where,  securing  himself  by  the  force  of  crime,  he  set  at  nought 
justice  and  judges,  all  magisterial,  and  even  all  sovereign 
power.     Situated  on  the  very  confines  of  the  state,  he  led  an 


284 


MANZONI 


independent  life;  a  harbourer  of  outlaws,  an  outlaw  at  one 
time  himself,  and  then  safely  returned  .  .  .  ."  We  will  ex- 
tract, in  the  sequel,  some  other  passages  from  this  writer, 
which  will  serve  to  confirm  and  elucidate  the  account  of  our 
anonymous  author,  with  whom  we  are  travelling  onward. 

To  do  what  was  forbidden  by  the  public  laws,  or  rendered 
difficult  by  an  opposing  power;  to  be  the  arbiter,  the  judge 
in  other  people's  affairs,  without  further  interest  in  them 
than  the  love  of  command;  to  be  feared  by  all,  and  to  have 
the  upper  hand  among  those  who  were  accustomed  to  hold 
the  same  station  over  others :  such  had  ever  been  the  principal 
objects  and  desires  of  this  man.  From  his  youth  he  had  al- 
ways had  a  mingled  feeling  of  contempt  and  impatient  envy 
at  the  sight  or  report  of  the  power,  rencounters,  strifes,  or  op- 
pressive tyranny  of  others.  Young,  and  living  in  a  city,  he 
omitted  no  opportunity,  nay,  even  sought  for  them,  of  setting 
himself  up  against  the  most  renowned  of  this  profession,  either 
entirely  to  subdue  them,  to  struggle  with  them,  and  keep  them 
in  awe,  or  to  induce  them  to  solicit  his  friendship.  Superior 
to  most  in  riches  and  retinue,  and,  perhaps,  to  all  in  pre- 
sumption and  intrepidity,  he  compelled  many  to  retire  from 
competition;  some  he  treated  with  haughtiness  or  contempt, 
some  he  took  as  friends;  not,  however,  on  an  equality  with 
himself,  but,  as  alone  would  satisfy  his  proud  and  arrogant 
mind,  as  subordinate  friends,  who  would  be  content  to  ac- 
knowledge their  inferiority,  and  use  their  hands  in  his  service. 
In  fact,  however,  he  became  at  length  the  grand  actor,  and 
the  instrument  of  his  companions,  who  never  failed  to  solicit 
the  aid  of  so  powerful  an  auxiliary  in  all  their  undertakings, 
while  for  him  to  draw  back  would  be  to  forfeit  his  reputation 
and  come  short  of  what  he  had  assumed.  He  went  on  thus, 
till,  on  his  own  service  and  that  of  others,  he  had  gone  to 
such  a  length,  that  neither  his  name,  family,  friends,  nor  even 
his  own  audacity,  sufficed  to  secure  him  against  public  proc- 
lamations and  outlawry,  and  he  was  compelled  to  give  way 
and  leave  the  state.  I  believe  it  is  to  this  circumstance  that 
a  remarkable  incident,  related  by  Ripamonti,  refers.  "  On 
one  occasion,  when  obliged  to  quit  the  country,  the  secrecy 
he  used,  and  the  respect  and  timidity  he  displayed,  were  such 
that  he  rode  through  the  city  on  horseback,  followed  by  a 
pack  of  hounds,  and  accompanied  with  the  sound  of  the  trum- 
pet; and,  in  passing  before  the  palace  of  the  court,  left  an  in- 
solent message  with  the  guards,  for  the  governor." 

During  his  absence  he  continued  the  same  practices,  not 
even  intermitting  his  correspondence  with  those  of  his  friends 


THE   BETROTHED  285 

who  remained  united  to  him  (to  translate  Hterally  from  Ri- 
pamonti),  ''  in  the  secret  alliance  of  atrocious  consultations 
and  fatal  deeds."  It  even  appears  that  he  engaged  the  for- 
eign courts  in  other  new  and  formidable  undertakings,  of 
which  the  above-cited  historian  speaks  with  mysterious  brev- 
ity. *'  Some  foreign  princes  several  times  availed  themselves 
of  his  assistance  in  important  murders,  and  frequently  sent 
him  reinforcements  of  soldiers,  from  a  considerable  distance, 
to  act  under  his  orders." 

At  length  (it  is  not  exactly  known  how  long  afterward) 
either  the  sentence  of  banishment  against  him  being  with- 
drawn, by  some  powerful  intercession,  or  the  audacity  of  the 
man  serving  him  in  place  of  any  other  liberation,  he  resolved 
to  return  home,  and,  in  fact,  did  return;  not,  however,  to 
Milan,  but  to  a  castle  on  his  manor,  situated  on  the  confines 
of  the  Bergamascan  territory,  at  that  time,  as  most  of  our 
readers  know,  under  Venetian  government;  and  here  he  fixed 
his  abode.  "  This  dwelling,"  we  again  quote  Ripamonti, 
''  was,  as  it  were,  a  dispensary  of  sanguinary  mandates :  the 
servants  were  outlaws  and  murderers;  the  very  cooks  and 
scullions  were  not  exempt  from  homicide;  the  hands  of  the 
children  were  stained  with  blood."  Besides  this  amiable  do- 
mestic circle,  he  had,  as  the  same  historian  affirms,  another 
set  of  dependents  of  a  similar  character  dispersed  abroad,  and 
quartered,  so  to  say,  at  different  posts  in  the  two  states  on 
the  borders  of  which  he  lived,  who  were  always  ready  to  exe- 
cute his  orders. 

All  the  tyrannical  noblemen  for  a  considerable  distance 
round  had  been  obliged,  on  one  occasion  or  another,  to 
choose  between  the  friendship  or  the  enmity  of  this  super- 
» eminent  tyrant.  Those,  however,  who  at  first  attempted  to 
resist  him,  came  off  so  badly  in  the  contest  that  no  one  was 
ever  induced  to  make  a  second  trial.  Neither  was  it  possible, 
by  maintaining  a  neutral  course,  or  standing,  as  the  saying 
is,  in  their  own  shoes,  to  keep  themselves  independent  of  him. 
If  a  message  arrived,  intimating  that  such  a  person  must  de- 
sist from  such  an  undertaking,  or  cease  to  molest  such  a 
debtor,  or  so  forth,  it  was  necessary  to  give  a  decided  answer 
one  way  or  other.  When  one  party  came,  with  the  homage 
of  a  vassal,  to  refer  any  business  to  his  arbitration,  the  other 
party  was  reduced  to  the  hard  alternative  of  either  abiding 
by  his  sentence,  or  publicly  declaring  hostilities;  which  was 
equivalent  to  being,  as  the  saying  is,  in  the  last  stage  of  con- 
sumption. Many  who  were  in  the  wrong,  had  recourse  to 
him  that  they  might  be  right  in  effect;  many  being  in  the 


286  MANZONI 

right,  yet  resorted  to  him  to  pre-engage  so  powerful  a  patron- 
age, and  close  the  way  against  the  adversaries;  thus  both 
bad  and  good  came  to  be  dependent  upon  him.  It  sometimes 
happened  that  the  weak,  oppressed,  harassed,  and  tyrannized 
over  by  some  powerful  lord,  turned  to  him  for  protection;  he 
would  then  take  the  part  of  the  oppressed,  and  force  the  op- 
pressor to  abstain  from  further  injuries,  to  repair  the  wrongs 
he  had  committed,  and  even  to  stoop  to  apologies;  or,  in  case 
of  his  proving  stubborn  and  unbending,  he  would  completely 
crush  his  power,  constrain  him  to  quit  the  place  where  he  had 
exercised  such  unjust  influence,  or  even  make  him  pay  a  more 
expeditious  and  more  terrible  penalty.  In  these  cases,  his 
name,  usually  so  dreaded  and  abhorred,  became,  for  a  time, 
an  object  of  blessing  for,  I  will  not  say  this  justice,  but  this 
remedy,  this  recompense  of  some  sort,  could  not  have  been 
expected,  under  the  circumstances  of  the  times,  from  any 
other  either  public  or  private  source.  More  frequently,  and 
indeed  ordinarily,  his  power  and  authority  ministered  to  in- 
iquitous desires,  atrocious  revenge,  or  outrageous  caprice. 
But  the  very  opposite  uses  he  made  of  this  power  produced 
in  the  end  the  self-same  efifect,  that  of  impressing  all  minds 
with  a  lofty  idea  of  how  much  he  could  will  and  execute  in 
spite  of  equity  or  iniquity,  those  two  things  which  interpose  so 
many  impediments  to  the  accomplishment  of  man's  desires, 
and  so  often  force  him  to  turn  back.  The  fame  of  ordinary 
oppressors  was  for  the  most  part  restricted  to  the  limited 
tract  of  country  where  they  continually  or  frequently  exer- 
cised their  oppression:  each  district  had  its  own  tyrant;  and 
these  so  resembled  each  other,  that  there  was  no  reason  that 
people  should  interfere  with  those  from  whom  they  sustained 
neither  injury  nor  molestation.  But  the  fame  of  this  man  had 
long  been  diffused  throughout  every  corner  of  the  Milanese: 
his  life  was  everywhere  the  subject  of  popular  stories;  and  his 
very  name  carried  with  it  the  idea  of  something  formidable, 
dark,  and  fabulous.  The  suspicions  that  were  everywhere 
entertained  of  his  confederates  and  tools  of  assassination,  con- 
tributed to  keep  alive  a  constant  memento  of  him.  They  were 
nothing  more  than  suspicions;  since  who  would  have  openly 
acknowledged  such  a  dependence?  but  every  tyrant  might  be 
his  associate,  every  robber  one  of  his  assassins;  and  the  very 
uncertainty  of  the  fact  rendered  the  opinion  more  general,  and 
the  terror  more  profound.  At  every  appearance  of  an  un- 
known ruffian,  more  savage-looking  than  usual;  at  every 
enormous  crime,  the  author  of  which  could  not  be  at  first 
pointed  out  or  conjectured,  the  name  of  this  man  was  pro- 


THE    BETROTHED 


287 


nounced  and  whispered  about,  whom,  thanks  to  the  happy 
circumspection,  to  give  it  no  other  epithet,  of  our  author, 
we  shall  be  obliged  to  designate  The  Unnamed. 

The  distance  between  his  castle  and  the  palace  of  Don 
Rodrigo  was  not  more  than  seven  miles:  and  no  sooner  had 
the  latter  become  a  lord  and  tyrant  than  he  could  not  help 
seeing  that,  at  so  short  a  distance  from  such  a  personage,  it 
would  not  be  possible  to  carry  on  this  profession  without 
either  coming  to  blows,  or  walking  hand  in  hand  with  him. 
He  had,  therefore,  offered  himself  and  been  accepted  for  a 
friend,  in  the  same  way,  that  is,  as  the  rest:  he  had  rendered 
him  more  than  one  service  (the  manuscript  says  nothing  fur- 
ther); and  had  each  time  been  rewarded  by  promises  of  re- 
quital and  assistance  in  any  cases  of  emergency.  He  took 
great  pains,  however,  to  conceal  such  a  friendship,  or  at  least 
of  what  nature  and  how  strict  it  was.  Don  Rodrigo  liked 
well  enough  to  play  the  tyrant,  but  not  the  fierce  and  savage 
tyrant:  the  profession  was  to  him  a  means,  not  an  end;  he 
wished  to  live  at  freedom  in  the  city,  to  enjoy  the  conveniences, 
diversions,  and  honours  of  social  life;  and  for  this  end  he  w^as 
obliged  to  keep  up  a  certain  appearance,  make  much  of  his 
family,  cultivate  the  friendship  of  persons  in  place,  and  keep 
one  hand  on  the  scales  of  justice,  so  as  on  any  occasion  to 
make  them  preponderate  in  his  favour,  either  removing  them 
altogether  from  view,  or  bringing  them  to  bear  with  double 
force  on  the  head  of  some  individual,  on  whom  he  could  thus 
more  easily  accomplish  his  designs  than  by  the  arm  of  private 
violence.  Now,  an  intimacy,  or  it  would  be  better  to  say  an 
alliance,  with  a  person  of  such  notoriety,  an  open  enemy  of  the 
public  power,  would  certainly  not  have  advanced  his  interests 
in  these  respects,  and  particularly  with  his  uncle.  However, 
the  slight  acquaintance  which  he  was  unable  to  conceal,  might 
pass  very  well  for  an  indispensable  attention  toward  a  man 
whose  enmity  was  much  to  be  deprecated,  and  thus  it  might 
receive  excuse  from  necessity;  since  one  who  assumes  the 
charge  of  providing  for  another  without  the  will  or  the  means, 
in  the  long  run  consents  that  his  protege  shall  provide  for 
himself  up  to  a  certain  point  in  his  own  affairs;  and  if  he  does 
not  expressly  give  his  consent,  at  least  he  winks  at  it. 

One  morning,  Don  Rodrigo  set  off  on  horseback,  in  the 
guise  of  a  hunter,  with  a  small  escort  of  bravoes  on  foot, 
Griso  at  his  side,  and  four  others  following  behind  him,  and 
took  the  road  to  the  castle  of  the  Unnamed. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  castle  of  the  Unnamed  was  commandingly  situated 
over  a  dark  and  narrow  valley,  on  the  summit  of  a  clifT 
projecting  from  a  rugged  ridge  of  hills,  whether  united 
to  them  or  separated  from  them  it  is  difBcult  to  say,  by 
a  mass  of  crags  and  rocks,  and  by  a  boundary  of  caverns  and 
abrupt  precipices,  both  flanking  it  and  on  the  rear.  The  side 
which  overlooked  the  valley  was  the  only  accessible  one; 
rather  a  steep  acclivity,  certainly,  but  even  and  unbroken :  the 
summit  was  used  for  pasturage,  while  the  lower  grounds  were 
cultivated,  and  scattered  here  and  there  were  habitations.  The 
bottom  was  a  bed  of  large  stones,  the  channel,  according  to 
the  season,  of  either  a  rivulet  or  a  noisy  torrent,  which  at  that 
time  formed  the  boundary  of  the  two  states.  The  opposite 
ridges,  forming,  so  to  speak,  the  other  wall  of  the  valley,  had 
a  small  cultivated  tract,  gently  inclining  from  the  base;  the 
rest  was  covered  with  crags,  stones,  and  abrupt  risings,  un- 
trodden, and  destitute  of  vegetation,  excepting  here  and  there 
a  solitary  bush  in  the  interstices,  or  on  the  edges  of  the  rocks. 
From  the  height  of  this  castle,  like  an  eagle  from  his  san- 
guinary nest,  the  savage  nobleman  surveyed  every  spot  around 
where  the  foot  of  man  could  tread,  and  heard  no  human  sound 
above  him.  At  one  view  he  could  overlook  the  whole  vale, 
the  declivities,  the  bed  of  the  stream,  and  the  practicable  paths 
intersecting  the  valley.  That  which  approached  his  terrible 
abode  by  a  zigzag  and  serpentine  course,  appeared  to  a  spec- 
tator from  below  like  a  winding  thread;  while  from  the  win- 
dows and  loop-holes  on  the  summit,  the  Signor  could  leisurely 
observe  any  one  who  was  ascending,  and  a  hundred  times 
catch  a  view  of  him.  With  the  garrison  of  bravoes  whom  he 
there  maintained,  he  could  even  oppose  a  tolerably  numerous 
troop  of  assailants,  stretching  any  number  of  them  on  the 
ground,  or  hurling  them  to  the  bottom,  before  they  could  suc- 
ceed in  gaining  the  height.  He  was  not  very  likely,  however, 
to  be  put  to  the  trial,  since  no  one  who  was  not  on  good  terms 
with  the  owner  of  the  castle  would  venture  to  set  foot  within 

288 


THE   BETROTHED  289 

its  walls,  or  even  In  the  valley  or  its  environs.  The  bailiff 
who  should  have  chanced  to  be  seen  there  would  have  been 
treated  like  an  enemy's  spy  seized  within  the  camp.  Tragical 
stories  were  related  of  the  last  who  had  dared  to  attempt  the 
undertaking;  but  they  were  then  tales  of  by-gone  days;  and 
none  of  the  village  youths  could  remember  having  seen  one 
of  this  race  of  beings,  either  dead  or  alive. 

Such  is  the  description  our  anonymous  author  gives  of 
the  place:  nothing  is  said  of  the  name;  and  for  fear  of  putting 
us  in  the  way  of  discovering  it,  he  avoids  all  notice  of  Don 
Rodrigo's  journey,  bringing  him  at  one  jump  into  the  midst 
of  the  valley,  and  setting  him  down  at  the  foot  of  the  ascent, 
just  at  the  entrance  of  the  steep  and  winding  footpath.  Here 
stood  an  inn,  which  might  also  be  called  a  guard-house.  An 
antique  sign  suspended  over  the  door,  displayed  on  each  side, 
in  glowing  colours,  a  radiant  sun;  but  the  public  voice,  which 
sometimes  repeats  names  as  they  are  first  pronounced,  and 
sometimes  remodels  them  after  its  own  fashion,  never  desig- 
nated this  tavern  by  the  title  of  the  Malanotte. 

At  the  sound  of  a  party  approaching  on  horseback,  an  ill- 
looking  lad  appeared  at  the  door-way  well  armed  with  knives 
and  pistols,  and  after  giving  a  glance  at  them,  re-entered  to 
inform  three  ruffians,  who,  seated  at  table,  were  playing  with 
a  very  dirty  pack  of  cards,  reversed  and  laid  one  upon  another 
like  so  many  tiles.  He  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader  rose,  and 
advancing  toward  the  door,  recognized  a  friend  of  his  master's, 
and  saluted  him  with  a  bow.  Don  Rodrigo,  returning  the 
salutation  with  great  politeness,  inquired  if  his  master  were 
in  the  castle,  and  receiving  for  an  answer  that  he  believed  so, 
dismounted  from  his  horse,  throwing  the  reins  to  Tira- 
dritto,  one  of  his  retinue.  Then,  taking  his  musket  from  his 
shoulder,  he  handed  it  to  Montanarolo,  as  if  to  disencumber 
himself  of  a  useless  weight,  and  render  his  ascent  easier;  but 
in  reality,  because  he  knew  well  enough  that  no  one  was  per- 
mitted to  mount  that  steep  who  carried  a  gun.  Then  taking 
out  of  his  purse  two  or  three  berlinghe,  he  gave  them  to  Tana- 
buso,  saying:  "  Wait  for  me  here;  and  in  the  mean  time  enjoy 
yourselves  with  these  good  people."  He  then  presented  the 
estimable  chief  of  the  party  with  a  few  gold  crowns,  one  half 
for  himself,  and  the  rest  to  be  divided  among  his  companions; 
and  at  length,  in  company  with  Griso,  w^ho  had  also  laid  aside 
his  weapons,  began  to  ascend  the  cliff  on  foot.  In  the  mean 
while,  the  three  above-mentioned  bravoes,  together  w4th  their 
fourth  companion,  Squinternotto  (what  amiable  names  to  be 
preserved  with  so  much  care!),  remained  behind  with  the 
19 


290 


MANZONI 


three  players,  and  the  unfortunate  boy,  who  was  training  for 
the  gallows,  to  game,  drink,  and  relate  by  turns  their  various 
feats  of  prowess. 

Another  bravo  belonging  to  the  Unnamed  shortly  over- 
took Don  Rodrigo  in  his  ascent;  and  after  eyeing  him  for  a 
moment,  recognized  a  friend  of  his  master's,  and  bore  him 
company;  by  this  means,  sparing  him  the  annoyance  of  telling 
his  name,  and  giving  a  further  account  of  himself,  to  the  many 
others  whom  he  met,  and  with  whom  he  was  unacquainted. 
On  reaching  the  castle,  and  being  admitted  (having  left  Griso, 
however,  outside),  he  was  conducted  a  roundabout  way 
through  dark  corridors,  and  various  apartments  hung  with 
muskets,  sabres,  and  partisans,  in  each  of  which  a  bravo  stood 
on  guard;  and  after  having  waited  some  time,  was  at  last 
ushered  into  the  room  where  the  Unnamed  was  expect- 
ing him. 

The  Signor  advanced  to  meet  Don  Rodrigo,  returning  his 
salutation,  and  at  the  same  time  eyeing  him  from  head  to 
foot  with  the  closest  scrutiny,  according  to  his  usual  habit, 
now  almost  an  involuntary  one,  toward  any  one  who  ap- 
proached him,  even  toward  his  oldest  and  most  tried  friends. 
He  was  tall,  sun-burnt,  and  bald;  and  at  first  sight  this  bald- 
ness, the  whiteness  of  his  few  remaining  hairs,  and  the  wrin- 
kles on  his  face,would  have  induced  the  judgment  that  he  was 
considerably  beyond  the  sixty  years  he  had  scarcely  yet  at- 
tained: though  on  a  nearer  survey,  his  carriage  and  move- 
ments, the  cutting  sarcasm  of  his  features,  and  the  deep  fire 
that  sparkled  in  his  eye,  indicated  a  vigour  of  body  and  mind 
which  would  have  been  remarkable  even  in  a  young  man. 

Don  Rodrigo  told  him  that  he  came  to  solicit  his  advice 
and  assistance;  that,  finding  himself  engaged  in  a  difftcult  un- 
dertaking, from  which  his  honour  would  not  now  suffer  him 
to  retire,  he  had  called  to  mind  the  promises  of  his  noble 
friend,  who  never  promised  too  much,  or  in  vain;  and  he  then 
proceeded  to  relate  his  infamous  enterprise.  The  Unnamed, 
v/ho  already  had  some  indefinite  knowledge  of  the  affair,  lis- 
tened attentively  to  the  recital,  both  because  he  was  naturally 
fond  of  such  stories,  and  because  there  was  implicated  in  it  a 
name  well  known  and  exceedingly  odious  to  him,  that  of  Fa- 
ther Cristoforo,  the  open  enemy  of  tyrants,  not  only  in  w^ord, 
but,  when  possible,  in  deed  also.  The  narrator  then  pro- 
ceeded to  exaggerate,  in  evidence,  the  difficulties  of  the  under- 
taking:— the  distance  of  the  place,  a  monastery,  the  Signora! 
....  At  this  word,  the  Unnamed,  as  if  a  demon  hidden  in  his 
heart  had  suggested  it,  abruptly  interrupted  him,  saying  that 


THE   BETROTHED 


291 


he  would  take  the  enterprise  upon  himself.  He  took  down  the 
name  of  our  poor  Lucia,  and  dismissed  Don  Rodrigo  with  the 
promise:  **  You  shall  shortly  hear  from  me  what  you  are 
to  do." 

•  If  the  reader  remembers  that  infamous  Egidio  whose  resi- 
ae  e  adjoined  the  monastery  where  poor  Lucia  had  found  a 
r.  we  will  now  inform  him  that  he  was  one  of  the  nearest 

ci4.  ...  st  intimate  associates  in  iniquity  of  the  Unnamed;  and 
U*^'.  as  lor  this  reason  that  the  latter  had  so  promptly  and  reso- 
'  "  r  iken  upon  him  to  pledge  his  word.  Nevertheless,  he 
.^,.-  no  sooner  left  alone,  than  he  began  to  feel,  I  will  not  say 
xCptntance,  but  vexation  at  having  made  the  promise.  For 
some  time  past  he  had  experienced,  not  exactly  remorse,  but 
a  kind  of  weariness  of  his  wicked  course  of  life.  These  feel- 
ings, which  had  accumulated  rather  in  his  memory  than  on  his 
conscience,  were  renewed  each  time  any  new  crime  was  com- 
mitted, and  each  time  they  seemed  more  multiplied  and  in- 
tolerable: it  was  like  constantly  adding  and  adding  to  an  al- 
ready incommodious  weight.  A  certain  repugnance  experi- 
enced on  the  commission  of  his  earlier  crimes,  afterward 
overcome  and  almost  entirely  excluded,  again  returned  to 
make  itself  felt.  But  in  his  first  misgivings,  the  image  of  a 
distant  and  uncertain  future,  together  with  the  consciousness 
of  a  vigorous  habit  of  body  and  a  strong  constitution,  had  only 
confirmed  him  in  a  supine  and  presumptuous  confidence. 
Now,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  the  thoughts  of  the  future  that 
embittered  the  retrospect  of  the  past.  To  grow  old!  To 
die!  And  then?  It  is  worthy  of  notice,  that  the  image  of 
death,  which  in  present  danger,  w^hen  facing  an  enemy,  usually 
only  nerved  his  spirit,  and  inspired  him  with  impetuous  cour- 
age— this  same  image,  when  presented  to  his  mind  in  the 
solemn  stillness  of  night,  and  in  the  security  of  his  own  castle, 
was  always  accompanied  with  a  feeling  of  undefined  horror 
and  alarm.  It  was  not  death  threatened  by  an  enemy  who 
was  himself  mortal;  it  was  not  to  be  repulsed  by  stronger 
weapons,  or  a  readier  arm;  it  came  alone,  it  was  suggested 
from  within;  it  might  still  be  distant,  but  every  moment 
brought  it  a  step  nearer;  and  even  while  he  was  hopelessly 
struggling  to  banish  the  remembrance  of  this  dreaded  enemy, 
it  was  coming  fast  upon  him.  In  his  early  days,  the  frequent 
examples  of  violence,  revenge,  and  murder,  which  were  per- 
petually exhibited  to  his  view,  while  they  inspired  him  with 
a  daring  emulation,  served  at  the  same  time  as  a  kind  of  au- 
thority against  the  voice  of  conscience:  now  an  indistinct  but 
terrible  idea  of  individual  responsibility,  and  judgment  inde- 


292 


MANZONI 


pendent  of  example,  incessantly  haunted  his  mind;  now  the 
thought  of  his  having  left  the  ordinary  crowd  of  wicked  doers, 
and  surpassed  them  all,  sometimes  impressed  him  with  a  feel- 
ing of  dreadful  solitude.  That  God,  of  whom  he  had  once 
heard,  but  whom  he  had  long  ceased  either  to  deny  or  ac- 
knowledge, solely  occupied  as  he  was  in  acting  as  though  he 
existed  not,  now,  at  certain  moments  of  depression  without 
cause,  and  terror  without  danger,  he  imagined  he  heard  re- 
peating within  him,  "  Nevertheless,  I  am."  In  the  first  heat 
of  youthful  passion,  the  laws  which  he  had  heard  announced 
in  His  name  had  only  appeared  hateful  to  him;  now,  when 
they  returned  unbidden  to  his  mind,  he  regarded  them,  in 
spite  of  himself,  as  something  which  would  have  a  fulfilment. 
But  that  he  might  sufifer  nothing  of  this  new  disquietude  to  be 
apparent  either  in  word  or  deed,  he  carefully  endeavoured  to 
conceal  it  under  the  mask  of  deeper  and  more  vehement  fe- 
rocity; and  by  this  means  also  he  sought  to  disguise  it  from 
himself,  or  entirely  to  stifle  it.  Envying  (since  he  could  nei- 
ther annihilate  nor  forget  them)  the  days  in  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  commit  iniquity  without  remorse,  and 
without  further  solicitude  than  for  its  success,  he  used  every 
endeavour  to  recall  them,  and  to  retain  or  recover  his  former 
unfettered  daring,  and  undisturbed  will,  that  he  might  con- 
vince himself  he  was  still  the  same  man. 

On  this  occasion,  therefore,  he  had  hastily  pledged  his 
word  to  Don  Rodrigo,  that  he  might  close  the  door  against 
all  hesitation.  Feeling,  however,  on  his  visitor's  departure, 
a  failing  of  the  resolution  that  he  had  summoned  up  to  make 
the  promise,  and  gradually  overwhelmed  with  thoughts  pre- 
senting themselves  to  his  mind,  which  tempted  him  to  break 
his  word,  and  which,  if  yielded  to,  would  have  made  him  sink 
very  low  in  the  eyes  of  his  friend,  a  secondary  accomplice,  he 
resolved  at  once  to  cut  short  the  painful  conflict,  and  sum- 
moned Nibbio  to  his  presence,  one  of  the  most  dexterous  and 
venturesome  ministers  of  his  enormities,  and  the  one  whom 
he  was  accustomed  to  employ  in  his  correspondence  with 
Egidio.  With  a  resolute  countenance  he  ordered  him  imme- 
diately to  mount  his  horse,  to  go  straight  to  Monza,  to  inform 
Egidio  of  the  engagement  he  had  made,  and  to  request  his 
counsel  and  assistance  in  fulfilling  it. 

The  worthless  messenger  returned  more  expeditiously  than 
his  master  expected,  with  Egidio's  reply,  that  the  undertak- 
ing was  easy  and  secure:  if  the  Unnamed  would  send  a  car- 
riage which  would  not  be  known  as  his,  with  two  or  three 
well-disguised  bravoes,   Egidio  would  undertake  the  charge 


THE    BETROTHED 


293 


of  all  the  rest,  and  would  manage  the  whole  affair.  At  this 
announcement,  the  Unnamed,  whatever  might  be  passing  in 
his  mind,  hastily  gave  orders  to  Nibbio  to  arrange  all  as 
Egidio  required,  and  to  go  himself,  with  two  others  whom  he 
named,  upon  this  expedition. 

Had  Egidio  been  obliged  to  reckon  only  on  ordinary 
means  for  the  accomplishment  of  the  horrible  service  he  had 
been  requested  to  undertake,  he  certainly  would  not  thus 
readily  have  given  so  unhesitating  a  promise.  But  in  that 
very  asylum,  where  it  would  seem  all  ought  to  have  been  an 
obstacle,  the  atrocious  villain  had  a  resource  known  only  to 
himself;  and  that  which  would  have  been  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty to  others  became  an  instrument  to  him.  We  have  al- 
ready related  how  the  unhappy  Signora  on  one  occasion  lent 
an  ear  to  his  addresses;  and  the  reader  may  have  understood 
that  this  was  not  the  last  time — that  it  was  but  the  first  step 
in  a  career  of  abomination  and  bloodshed.  The  same  voice, 
rendered  imperative  and  almost  authoritative  through  guilt, 
now  imposed  upon  her  the  sacrifice  of  the  innocent  creature 
who  had  been  committed  to  her  care. 

The  proposal  was  frightful  to  Gertrude.  To  lose  Lucia 
by  an  unforeseen  accident,  and  without  any  fault  on  her  part, 
would  have  seemed  to  her  a  misfortune,  a  bitter  punishment: 
but  now  she  was  enjoined  to  deprive  herself  of  her  society 
by  a  base  act  of  perfidy,  and  to  convert  a  means  of  expia- 
tion into  a  fresh  subject  for  remorse.  The  unhappy  lady 
tried  every  method  to  extricate  herself  from  the  horrible  com- 
mand;— every  method,  except  the  only  one  which  would  have 
been  infallible,  and  which  still  remained  in  her  power.  Guilt 
is  a  rigid  and  inflexible  tyrant,  against  whom  all  are  powerless 
but  those  who  entirely  rebel.  On  this  Gertrude  could  not  re- 
solve, and  she  obeyed. 

It  was  the  day  fixed;  the  appointed  hour  approached; 
Gertrude  retired  with  Lucia  into  her  private  apartment,  and 
there  lavished  upon  her  more  caresses  than  usual,  which  Lucia 
received  and  returned  with  increasing  affection:  as  the  lamb, 
trembling  under  the  hand  of  the  shepherd  as  he  coaxes  and 
gently  urges  it  forward,  turns  to  lick  that  very  hand,  uncon- 
scious that  the  butcher  waits  outside  the  sheepfold,  to  whom 
the  shepherd  a  moment  before  has  sold  it. 

"  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  great  service ;  one  that  nobody 
but  you  can  do.  I  have  plenty  of  persons  ready  to  obey  me, 
but  none  whom  I  dare  trust.  On  some  very  important  busi- 
ness, which  I  will  tell  you  about  afterward,  I  want  to  speak 
to  the  Father-guardian  of  the  Capuchins  who  brought  you 


294  MANZONI 

here  to  me,  my  poor  Lucia;  but  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  no  one  should  know  I  have  sent  for  him.  I  have  nobody 
but  you  who  can  secretly  carry  this  message  .  .  .  ." 

Lucia  was  terrified  at  such  a  request;  and  with  her  own 
native  modesty,  yet  not  without  a  strong  expression  of  sur- 
prise, she  endeavoured  to  dissuade  her  by  adducing  reasons 
which  the  Signora  ought  to  have  understood  and  foreseen: 
without  her  mother,  without  an  escort,  by  a  solitary  road,  in 
an  unknown  country  ....  But  Gertrude,  instructed  in 
an  infernal  school,  manifested  much  surprise  and  displeasure 
at  finding  this  stubborn  opposition  in  one  whom  she  had 
so  greatly  benefitted,  and  pretended  to  think  her  excuses 
very  frivolous.  In  broad  daylight — a  mere  step — a  road 
Lucia  had  travelled  only  a  few  days  before,  and  wdiich 
could  be  so  described  that  even  a  person  who  had  never  seen 
it  could  not  possibly  go  astray!  ...  In  short, .  she  said  so 
much,  that  the  poor  girl,  touched  at  once  with  gratitude 
and  shame,  suffered  the  words  to  escape,  *'  Well,  what  am  I 
to  do?" 

"Go  to  the  Convent  of  the  Capuchins;"  and  here  she 
again  described  the  road;  "ask  for  the  Father-guardian,  and 
tell  him  to  come  to  me  as  quickly  as  possible;  but  not  to  let 
any  one  know  that  he  comes  at  my  request." 

"  But  what  shall  I  say  to  the  portress,  who  has  never  seen 
me  go  out,  and  will  therefore  be  sure  to  ask  whither  I  am 
going?" 

"  Try  to  get  out  without  her  seeing  you;  and  if  you  can't 
manage  it,  tell  her  you  are  going  to  such  a  church,  where  you 
have  vowed  to  offer  up  some  prayers." 

Here  was  a  new  difiliculty  for  Lucia — to  tell  a  falsehood; 
but  the  Signora  again  showed  herself  so  vexed  by  her  repulses, 
and  made  her  so  ashamed  of  herself  for  interposing  a  vain 
scruple  in  the  way  of  gratitude,  that  the  poor  girl,  stupefied 
rather  than  convinced,  and  greatly  affected  by  her  words,  re- 
plied :  "  Very  well ;  I  will  go.  And  may  God  help  me !  " 
And  she  set  off. 

But  Gertrude,  who  from  her  grated  window  followed  her 
with  a  fixed  and  anxious  look,  no  sooner  saw  her  set  foot  on 
the  threshold,  than,  overcome  by  an  irresistible  emotion,  she 
exclaimed,  "Listen,  Lucia!" 

Lucia  turned  round,  and  advanced  toward  the  window. 
But  another  thought,  the  thought  accustomed  to  predominate, 
had  already  prevailed  over  Gertrude's  unhappy  mind.  Pre- 
tending that  she  was  not  yet  satisfied  with  the  instructions  she 
had  given,  she  again  described  to  Lucia  the  road  she  must 


THE   BETROTHED 


295 


follow,  and  dismissed  her,  saying,  "  Do  everything  as  I  have 
told  you,  and  return  quickly."     Lucia  departed. 

She  passed  the  gate  of  the  cloister  unobserved,  and  took 
the  road  along  the  side  of  the  wall,  with  her  eyes  bent  to  the 
ground;  by  the  help  of  the  directions  she  had  received,  and 
her  own  recollections,  she  found  the  city  gate,  and  went  out. 
Self-possessed,  but  still  rather  trembling,  she  proceeded  along 
the  high  road,  and  shortly  reached  the  turn  to  the  convent, 
which  she  immediately  recognized.  This  road  was,  and  still 
is,  buried,  like  the  bed  of  a  river,  between  two  high  banks 
bordered  with  trees,  which  spread  their  branches  over  it  like 
a  vaulted  roof.  Lucia  felt  her  fears  increase,  and  quickened 
her  steps,  as  she  found  herself  quite  alone  on  entering  it:  but 
a  few  paces  further  her  courage  revived  on  seeing  a  travelling 
carriage  standing,  and  two  travellers  looking  this  and  that  way, 
as  if  uncertain  of  the  road.  On  drawing  nearer,  she  overheard 
one  of  them  saying,  ''  Here  is  a  good  woman,  who  will  show 
us  the  way."  In  fact  when  she  had  got  opposite  the  carriage, 
the  same  person,  with  a  more  courteous  manner  than  counte- 
nance, turned  and  addressed  her:  **  My  good  girl,  can  you 
tell  us  which  is  the  way  to  Monza?  " 

'*  You  have  taken  the  wrong  direction,"  replied  the  poor 
girl;  **  Monza  is  there,"  and  as  she  turned  to  point  it  out 
with  her  finger,  the  other  companion  (it  was  Nibbio)  seized 
her  unexpectedly  round  the  waist,  and  lifted  her  from  the 
ground.  Lucia,  in  great  alarm,  turned  her  head  round,  and 
uttered  a  scream;  the  ruffian  pushed  her  into  the  carriage;  a 
third,  who  was  seated  in  the  back  of  it,  concealed  from  view, 
received  her,  and  forced  her,  in  spite  of  her  struggles  and 
cries,  to  sit  down  opposite  to  him;  while  another  put  a  hand- 
kerchief over  her  mouth,  and  stifled  her  cries.  Nibbio  nov/ 
hastily  threw  himself  into  the  carriage,  shut  the  door,  and  they 
set  of¥  at  a  rapid  pace.  The  other,  who  had  made  the  treach- 
erous inquiry,  remained  in  the  road,  and  looked  hurriedly 
around:  no  one  was  to  be  seen;  he  therefore  sprang  upon  the 
bank,  grasped  a  branch  of  the  hedge  which  was  planted  upon 
the  summit,  pushed  through  the  fence,  and  entering  a  planta- 
tion of  green  oaks,  which,  for  a  short  distance,  ran  along  the 
side  of  the  road,  stooped  down  there,  that  he  might  not  be 
seen  by  the  people  who  would  probably  be  attracted  by  the 
cries.  This  man  was  one  of  Egidio's  villains;  he  had  been  to 
watch  near  the  gate  of  the  monastery,  had  seen  Lucia  go  out, 
had  noticed  her  dress  and  figure,  and  had  then  run  by  a 
shorter  way  to  wait  for  her  at  the  appointed  spot. 

Who  can  represent  the  terror,  the  anguish  of  the  unfor- 


296  MANZONI 

tunate  girl,  or  describe  what  was  passing  in  her  mind?  She 
opened  lier  terrified  eyes,  from  anxiety  to  ascertain  her  hor- 
rible situation,  and  quickly  closed  them  again  with  a  shudder 
of  fear  at  the  sight  of  the  dreadful  faces  that  met  her  view: 
she  writhed  her  body,  but  found  that  she  was  held  down  on 
all  sides:  she  collected  all  her  strength,  and  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  push  toward  the  door;  but  two  sinewy  arms  held 
her  as  if  she  were  nailed  to  the  bottom  of  the  carriage,  while 
four  other  powerful  hands  supported  her  there.  At  every  sig- 
nal she  gave  of  intending  to  utter  a  cry,  the  handkerchief  was 
instantly  stuffed  into  her  mouth  to  smother  the  sound,  while 
three  infernal  mouths,  with  voices  more  human  than  they  were 
accustomed  to  utter,  continued  to  repeat:  "  Be  still,  be  still; 
don't  be  afraid,  we  don't  want  to  do  you  any  harm."  After 
a  few  moments  of  agonized  struggle,  she  seemed  to  become 
quieter;  her  arms  sank  by  her  side,  her  head  fell  backward, 
she  half  opened  her  eyelids,  and  her  eyes  became  fixed;  the 
horrible  faces  which  surrounded  her  appeared  to  mingle  and 
flock  before  her  in  one  monstrous  image;  the  colour  fled  from 
her  cheek;  a  cold  moisture  overspread  her  face;  her  con- 
sciousness vanished,  and  she  fainted  away.  ^ 

"  Come,  come,  courage,"  said  Nibbio.  "  Courage,  cour- 
age," repeated  the  two  other  ruffians;  but  the  prostration  of 
every  faculty  preserved  Lucia,  at  that  moment,  from  hearing 
the  consolations  addressed  to  her  by  those  horrible  voices. 

"  The !  she  seems  to  be  dead,"  said  one  of  them;  ''  if 

she's  really  dead! " 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  other.  "It's  only  a  swoon,  such  as 
women  often  fall  into.  I  know  well  enough  that  when  I've 
wanted  to  send  another,  be  it  man  or  woman,  into  the  other 
world,  it  has  required  something  more  than  this." 

"  Hold  your  tongues,"  said  Nibbio.  ''  Attend  to  your 
own  business,  and  mind  nothing  else.  Take  yovir  muskets 
from  under  the  seat,  and  keep  them  in  readiness;  for  there 
are  always  some  villains  hidden  in  the  wood  we  are  entering. 

Not  in  your  hands,  the  !  put  them  behind  your  backs, 

and  let  them  lie  there:  don't  you  see  that  she's  a  cowardly 
chicken,  who  faints  for  nothing?  If  she  sees  fire-arms,  it  will 
be  enough  to  kill  her  outright.  And  when  she  recovers,  take 
good  care  you  don't  frighten  her;  don't  touch  her  unless  I 
beckon  to  you ;  I  am  enough  to  manage  her.  And  hold  your 
tongues:  leave  me  to  talk  to  her." 

In  the  mean  while  the  carriage,  which  was  proceeding  at 
a  very  rapid  pace,  entered  the  wood. 

After  some  time,  the  unhappy  Lucia  gradually  began  to 


THE   BETROTHED  297 

come  to  her  senses,  as  if  awaking  from  a  profound  and  trou- 
bled sleep,  and  slowly  opened  her  eyes.  At  first  she  found  it 
difficult  to  distinguish  the  gloomy  objects  that  surrounded 
her,  and  collect  her  scattered  thoughts;  but  she  at  last  suc- 
ceeded in  recalling  her  fearful  situation.  The  first  use  she 
made  of  her  newly-recovered,  though  still  feeble  powers,  was 
to  rush  toward  the  door,  and  attempt  to  throw  herself  out; 
but  she  was  forcibly  restrained,  and  had  only  time  to  get  a 
glance  at  the  wald  solitude  of  the  place  through  which  they 
were  passing.  She  again  uttered  a  cry;  but  Nibbio,  holding 
up  the  handkerchief  in  his  dreaded  hand,  '*  Come,"  said  he, 
in  the  gentlest  tone  he  could  command,  "  be  quiet,  and  it  will 
be  better  for  you.  We  don't  want  to  do  you  any  harm;  but 
if  you  don't  hold  your  tongue,  we'll  make  you." 

"  Let  me  go!  Who  are  you?  Where  are  you  taking  me? 
Why  have  you  seized  me?     Let  me  go,  let  me  go!  " 

"I  tell  you,  you  needn't  be  afraid:  you're  not  a  baby, 
and  you  ought  to  understand  that  we  don't  want  to  do 
you  any  harm.  Don't  you  see  that  we  might  have  murdered 
you  a  hundred  times,  if  we  had  any  bad  intentions? — so  be 
quiet." 

"  No,  no,  let  me  go  on  mv  own  business;  I  don't  know 
you." 

''  We  know  you,  however." 

*'  O  most  holy  Virgin !  Let  me  go,  for  pity's  sake !  Who 
are  you?     Why  have  you  taken  me?  " 

"  Because  we  have  been  bid  to  do  so.'* 
Who?     Who?     Who  can  have  bid  you?  " 
Hush!"  said  Nibbio,  with  a  stern  look;  "you  mustn't 
ask  me  such  questions." 

Lucia  made  a  third  attempt  to  throw  herself  suddenly  out 
of  the  window;  but  finding  it  in  vain,  she  again  had  recourse 
to  entreaties;  and  with  her  head  bent,  her  cheeks  bathed  with 
tears,  her  voice  interrupted  by  sobs,  and  her  hands  clasped 
before  her,  **Oh!"  cried  she,  "for  the  love  of  God  and  the 
most  holy  Virgin,  let  me  go!  What  harm  have  I  done?  I 
am  an  innocent  creature,  and  have  done  nobody  any  harm. 
I  forgive  you  the  wrongs  you  have  done  me,  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart,  and  will  pray  God  for  you.  If  any  of  you  have 
a  daughter,  a  wife,  a  mother,  think  what  they  would  suffer,  if 
they  were  in  this  state.  Remember  that  we  must  all  die,  and 
that  you  will  one  day  want  God  to  be  merciful  toward  you. 
Let  me  go;  leave  me  here;  the  Lord  will  teach  me  to  find 
my  way." 

"  We  cannot." 


298 


MANZONI 


''You  can  not!  Oh  my  God!  Why  can't  you?  Where 
are  you  taking  me?     Why?  .  .  .  ." 

"  We  can  not;  it's  no  use  asking.  Don't  be  afraid,  for  we 
won't  harm  you :  be  quiet,  and  nobody'll  touch  you." 

Overcome  with  distress,  agony,  and  terror  at  finding  that 
her  words  made  no  impression,  I.ucia  turned  to  Him  who 
holds  the  hearts  of  men  in  His  hand,  and  can,  when  it  pleaseth 
Him,  soften  the  most  obdurate.  She  sank  back  into  the  cor- 
ner where  she  had  been  placed,  crossed  her  arms  on  her  breast, 
and  prayed  fervently,  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart;  then, 
drawing  out  her  rosary,  she  began  to  repeat  the  prayers  with 
more  faith  and  devotion  than  she  had  ever  before  done  in  her 
life.  From  time  to  time  she  would  turn  to  entreat  her  com- 
panions, in  hopes  that  she  might  gain  the  mercy  she  implored ; 
but  she  implored  in  vain.  Then  she  fell  back,  and  again  be- 
came senseless,  only  to  awake  to  new  anguish.  But  we  have 
not  the  heart  to  relate  these  agonizing  vicissitudes  more  at 
length;  a  feeling  of  overpowering  compassion  makes  us  hasten 
to  the  close  of  this  mournful  journey,  which  lasted  for  more 
than  four  hours;  succeeding  which  we  shall  be  obliged  to  de- 
scribe many  hours  of  still  more  bitter  anguish.  We  will  trans- 
port ourselves  to  the  castle  where  the  unhappy  girl  was  ex- 
pected. 

She  was  awaited  by  the  Unnamed  with  a  solicitude  and 
anxiety  of  mind  which  were  very  unusual.  Strange!  that  he 
who  had  disposed  of  so  many  lives  with  an  imperturbed  heart, 
who  in  so  many  undertakings  had  considered  as  nothing  the 
sufferings  he  inflicted,  unless  it  were  sometimes  to  glut  his 
appetite  with  the  fierce  enjoyment  of  revenge,  should  now  feel 
a  recoiling,  a  regret — I  might  almost  say,  a  feeling  of  alarm, 
at  the  authority  he  was  exercising  over  this  Lucia — a  stranger, 
a  poor  peasant-girl!  From  a  lofty  window  of  his  castle  he 
had  been  for  some  time  watching  the  entrance  of  the  valley; 
by  and  by  the  carriage  made  its  appearance,  slowly  advancing 
along  the  road;  for  the  rapid  pace  at  which  they  had  at  first 
started  had  curbed  the  mettle  and  cooled  the  ardour  of  the 
horses.  And  although  from  the  post  where  he  stood  to 
watch,  the  convoy  looked  no  larger  than  one  of  those  diminu- 
tive vehicles  with  which  children  are  wont  to  amuse  them- 
selves yet  he  hesitated  not  a  moment  to  recognize  it;  and  his 
heart  began  afresh  to  beat  violently. 

Will  she  be  there?  thought  he  immediately;  and  he  con- 
tinued to  say  to  himself:  What  trouble  this  creature  gives 
me!     I  will  free  myself  from  it. 

And  he  prepared  to  summon  one  of  his  men,  and  despatch 


THE    BETROTHED 


299 


him  immediately  to  meet  the  carriage,  with  orders  to  Nibbio 
to  turn  round,  and  conduct  her  at  once  to  Don  Rodrigo's 
palace.  But  an  imperative  no,  that  instantly  flashed  across 
his  mind,  made  him  at  once  abandon  this  design.  Wearied 
at  length  by  the  desire  of  ordering  something  to  be  done,  and 
intolerably  tired  of  idly  waiting  the  approach  of  the  carriage, 
as  it  advanced  slowly,  step  by  step,  like  a  traitor  to  his  pun- 
ishment, he  at  length  summoned  an  old  woman  of  his  house- 
hold. 

This  person  was  the  daughter  of  a  former  keeper  of  the 
castle,  had  been  born  within  its  walls,  and  spent  all  her  life 
there.  All  that  she  had  seen  and  heard  around  her  from 
very  infancy,  had  contributed  to  impress  upon  her  mind  a 
lofty  and  terrible  idea  of  the  power  of  her  masters;  and  the 
principal  maxim  that  she  had  acquired  from  instruction  and 
example  was,  that  they  must  be  obeyed  in  everything,  because 
they  were  capable  of  doing  either  great  good  or  great  harm. 
The  idea  of  duty,  deposited  like  a  germ  in  the  hearts  of  all 
men,  and  mingling  in  hers  with  sentiments  of  respect,  dread, 
and  servile  devotion,  was  associated  with,  and  solely  directed 
to,  these  objects.  When  the  Unnamed  became  her  lord,  and 
began  to  make  such  terrible  use  of  his  power,  she  felt,  from  the 
first,  a  kind  of  horror,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  more  profound 
feeling  of  subjection.  In  time  she  became  habituated  to 
what  she  daily  saw  and  heard  around  her:  the  potent  and  un- 
bridled will  of  such  a  Signor  was,  in  her  idea,  a  kind  of  justice 
appointed  by  fate.  When  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  she 
had  married  a  servant  of  the  household,  who,  being  sent  on 
some  hazardous  expedition,  shortly  afterward  left  his  bones 
on  the  highway,  and  her  a  widow  in  the  castle.  The  ven- 
geance which  the  Signor  quickly  took  on  the  instruments  of 
his  death  yielded  her  a  savage  consolation  and  increased  her 
pride  at  being  under  such  protection.  From  that  time  for- 
ward she  rarely  set  foot  outside  the  castle,  and  by  degrees 
retained  no  other  ideas  of  human  life  than  such  as  she  received 
within  its  precincts.  She  was  not  confined  to  any  particular 
branch  of  service,  but  among  such  a  crowd  of  rufftans,  one 
or  other  was  constantly  finding  her  something  to  do,  which 
furnished  her  with  a  never-failing  subject  for  grumbling. 
Sometimes  she  would  have  clothes  to  repair,  sometimes  a  meal 
to  provide  in  haste  for  one  who  had  returned  from  an  expe- 
dition, and  sometimes  she  was  called  upon  to  exercise  her 
medical  skill  in  dressing  a  wound.  The  commands,  re- 
proaches, and  thanks  of  these  ruffians,  were  generally  seasoned 
with  jokes  and  rude  speeches:  ''old  woman"  was  her  usual 


300  ^:..  MANZONI 

appellation;  while  the  adjuncts  which  were  perpetually  at- 
tached to  it,  varied  according  to  the  circumstances  and  hu- 
mour of  the  speaker.  Crossed  thus  in  her  idleness,  and  irri- 
tated in  her  peevish  temper,  which  were  her  two  predominant 
passions,  she  sometimes  returned  these  compliments  with  lan- 
guage in  which  Satan  might  have  recognized  more  of  his  own 
spirit  than  in  that  of  her  tormentors. 

''You  see  that  carriage  down  there?"  said  the  Signor  to 
this  amiable  specimen  of  womankind. 

''  I  see  it,"  replied  she,  protruding  her  sharp  chin,  and 
staring  with  her  sunken  eyes,  as  if  trying  to  force  them  out  of 
their  sockets. 

"  Bid  them  prepare  a  litter  immediately;  get  into  it  your- 
self, and  let  it  be  carried  to  Malanotte  instantly,  that  you  may 
get  there  before  the  carriage;  it  is  coming  on  at  a  funeral 
pace.  In  that  carriage  there  is  ...  .  there  ought  to  be  ...  . 
a  young  girl.  If  she's  there,  tell  Nibbio  it  is  my  order  that  she 
should  be  put  into  the  litter,  and  that  he  must  come  directly 
to  me.  You  will  come  up  in  the  litter  with  the  ....  girl; 
and  when  you  are  up  here,  take  her  into  your  own  room.  If 
she  asks  you  where  you  are  taking  her,  v/hom  the  castle  be- 
longs to,  take  care  .  .  .  ." 

"  Oh!  "  said  the  old  woman. 

"  But,"  continued  the  Unnamed,  "  try  to  encourage  her." 

"  What  must  I  say  to  her?  " 

*'  What  must  you  say  to  her?  Try  to  encourage  her,  I 
tell  you.  Have  you  come  to  this  age,  and  don't  know  how 
to  encourage  others  when  they  want  it!  Have  you  ever 
known  sorrow  of  heart?  Have  you  never  been  afraid?  Don't 
you  know  what  words  soothe  and  comfort  at  such  moments? 
Say  those  words  to  her;  find  them  in  the  remembrance  of  your 
own  sorrows.     Go  directly." 

As  soon  as  she  had  taken  her  departure,  he  stood  for  a 
while  at  the  window,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  carriage,  which 
had  already  considerably  increased  in  size;  afterward  he 
watched  the  sun,  at  that  moment  sinking  behind  the  moun- 
tain; then  he  contemplated  the  fleecy  clouds  scattered  above 
the  setting  orb,  and  from  their  usual  greyish  hue  almost  in- 
stantaneously assuming  a  fiery  tinge.  He  drew  back,  closed 
the  window,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  apartment 
with  the  step  of  a  hurried  traveller. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  old  woman  immediately  hastened  to  obey  and  to 
give  commands  under  the  sanction  of  that  name,  which, 
by  whomsoever  pronounced,  always  set  the  whole 
household  on  the  alert;  for  it  never  entered  the  imagi- 
nation of  any  one  that  another  person  would  venture  to  use 
it  unauthorized.  She  reached  Malanotte  shortly  before  the 
carriage  arrived;  and  on  seeing  it  approach,  got  out  of  the 
litter,  beckoned  to  the  driver  to  stop,  advanced  toward  the 
door,  and  whispered  to  Nibbio,  who  put  his  head  out  of  the 
window,  the  wishes  of  his  master. 

Lucia  aroused  herself,  on  feeling  the  carriage  stop,  and, 
awaking  from  a  kind  of  lethargy,  was  seized  with  renewed 
terror,  as  she  wildly  gazed  around  her.  Nibbio  had  pushed 
himself  back  on  the  seat,  and  the  old  woman,  with  her  chin 
resting  on  the  door,  was  looking  at  Lucia,  and  saying,  ''  Come, 
my  good  girl;  come,  you  poor  thing;  come  with  me,  for  I 
have  orders  to  treat  you  well,  and  try  to  comfort  you." 

At  the  sound  of  a  female  voice,  the  poor  girl  felt  a  ray 
of  comfort — a  momentary  flash  of  courage;  but  she  quickly 
relapsed  into  still  more  terrible  fears.  "  Who  are  you?  "  asked 
she,  in  a  trembling  voice,  fixing  her  astonished  gaze  on  the 
old  woman's  face. 

*'  Come,  come,  you  poor  creature,"  was  the  unvaried  an- 
swer she  received.  Nibbio,  and  his  two  companions,  gather- 
ing from  the  words  and  the  unusually  softened  tones  of  the 
old  hag  what  the  intentions  of  their  lord  were,  endeavoured 
by  kind  and  soothing  words  to  persuade  the  unhappy  girl  to 
obey.  She  only  continued,  however,  to  stare  wildly  around; 
and  though  the  unknown  and  savage  character  of  the  place, 
and  the  close  guardianship  of  her  keepers,  forbade  her  indulg- 
ing a  hope  of  relief,  she,  nevertheless,  attempted  to  cry  out; 
but  seeing  Nibbio  cast  a  glance  toward  the  handkerchief,  she 
stopped,  trembled,  gave  a  momentary  shudder,  and  was  then 
seized,  and  placed  in  the  litter.  The  old  woman  entered  after 
her;  Nibbio  left  the  other  two  villains  to  follow  behind  as  an 

301 


302 


MANZONI 


escort,  while  he  himself  took  the  shortest  ascent  to  attend  to 
the  call  of  his  master. 

"Who  are  you?"  anxiously  demanded  Lucia  of  her  un- 
known and  ugly-visaged  companion.  "  Why  am  I  with  you? 
W^here  am  I?     Where  are  you  taking  me?  " 

''  To  one  who  wishes  to  do  you  good,"  replied  the  aged 
dame;  *' to  a  great  ....  Happy  are  they  whom  he  wishes 
good!  You  are  very  lucky,  I  can  tell  you.  Don't  be  afraid 
— be  cheerful;  he  bid  me  try  to  encourage  you.  You'll  tell 
him,  won't  you,  that  I  tried  to  comfort  you?" 

"  Who  is  he? — why? — what  does  he  want  with  me?  I 
don't  belong  to  him!  Tell  me  where  I  am!  let  me  go!  bid 
these  people  let  me  go — bid  them  carry  me  to  some  church. 
Oh!    you  who  are  a  woman,  in  the  name  of  Mary  the  Vir- 


gin! 


This  holy  and  soothing  name,  once  repeated  with  venera- 
tion in  her  early  years,  and  now  for  so  long  a  time  uninvoked, 
and,  perhaps,  unheard,  produced  in  the  mind  of  the  unhappy 
creature,  on  again  reaching  her  ear,  a  strange,  confused,  and 
distant  recollection,  like  the  remembrance  of  light  and  form 
in  an  aged  person,  who  has  been  blind  from  infancy. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  Unnamed,  standing  at  the  door  of 
his  castle,  was  looking  downward,  and  watching  the  litter,  as 
before  he  had  watched  the  carriage,  while  it  slowly  ascended, 
step  by  step;  Nibbio  rapidly  advancing  before  it  at  a  distance 
which  at  every  moment  became  greater.  When  he  had  at 
length  attained  the  summit,  **  Come  this  way,"  cried  the  Si- 
gnor;  and  taking  the  lead,  he  entered  the  castle,  and  went 
into  one  of  the  apartments. 

"Well?"  said  he,  making  a  stand. 

"  Everything  exactly  right,"  replied  Nibbio,  with  a  pro- 
found obeisance;  "the  intelligence  in  time,  the  girl  in  time, 
nobody  on  the  spot,  only  one  scream,  nobody  attracted  by  it, 
the  coachman  ready,  the  horses  swift,  nobody  met  with: 
but  .  .  .  ." 

"But  what?" 

"  But  ....  I  will  tell  the  truth;  I  would  rather  have  been 
commanded  to  shoot  her  in  the  back,  without  hearing  her 
speak — without  seeing  her  face." 

"What?  .  .  .  what?  ....  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  all  this  time  ....  all  this  time  ....  I 
have  felt  too  much  compassion  for  her." 

"  Compassion!  What  do  you  know  of  compassion? 
What  is  compassion?  " 

"I  never  understood  so  well  what  it  was  as  this  time;  it 


THE   BETROTHED 


303 


is  something-  that  rather  resembles  fear;  let  it  once  take  pos- 
session of  you,  and  you  are  no  longer  a  man." 

''  Let  me  hear  a  little  of  what  she  did  to  excite  your  com- 
passion." 

'*  O,  most  noble  Signor!  such  a  time!  ....  weeping, 
praying,  and  looking  at  one  with  such  eyes!  and  becoming 
pale  as  death !  and  then  sobbing,  and  praying  again,  and  cer- 
tain words  .  .  .  ." 

I  won't  have  this  creature  in  my  house,  thought  the  Un- 
named, meanwhile,  to  himself.  In  an  evil  hour  I  engaged  to 
do  it;  but  I've  promised — I've  promised.  When  she's  far 
away  .  .  .  . — And  raising  his  face  with  an  imperious  air  to- 
ward Nibbio,  "  Now,"  said  he,  ''  you  must  lay  aside  compas- 
sion, mount  your  horse,  take  a  companion — two,  if  you  like — 
and  ride  away,  till  you  get  to  the  palace  of  this  Don  Rodrigo, 
you  know.  Tell  him  to  send  immediately  ....  immediately, 
or  else  .  .  .  ." 

But  another  internal  110,  more  imperative  than  the  first, 
prohibited  his  finishing.  "  No,"  said  he,  in  a  resolute  tone, 
almost,  as  it  were,  to  express  to  himself  the  command  of  this 
secret  voice.  *'  No:  go  and  take  some  rest;  and  to-morrow 
morning  ....  you  shall  do  as  I  will  tell  you." 

This  girl  must  have  some  demon  of  her  own,  thought  he, 
when  left  alone,  standing  with  his  arms  crossed  on  his  breast, 
and  his  gaze  fixed  upon  a  spot  on  the  floor,  where  the  rays  of 
the  moon,  entering  through  a  lofty  window,  traced  out  a 
square  of  pale  light,  chequered  like  a  draught-board  by  the 
massive  iron  bars,  and  more  minutely  divided  into  smaller 
compartments  by  the  little  panes  of  glass. — Some  demon,  or 
....  some  angel  who  protects  her  ....  Compassion  in 
Nibbio!  ....  To-morrow  morning — to-morrow  morning, 
early,  she  must  be  off  from  this;  she  must  go  to  her  place  of 
destination;  and  she  shall  not  be  spoken  of  again;  and — con- 
tinued he  to  himself,  with  the  resolution  with  which  one  gives 
a  command  to  a  rebellious  child,  knowing  that  it  will  not  be 
obeyed — and  she  shall  not  be  thought  of  again,  either.  That 
animal  of  a  Don  Rodrigo  must  not  come  to  pester  me  with 
thanks;  for  ....  I  don't  want  to  hear  her  spoken  of  any 
more.  I  have  served  him  because  ....  because  I  promised; 
and  I  promised,  because  ....  it  was  my  destiny.  But  I'm 
determined  the  fellow  shall  pay  me  well  for  this  piece  of  serv- 
ice.    Let  me  see  a  little  .... 

And  he  tried  to  devise  some  intricate  undertaking,  to  im- 
pose upon  Don  Rodrigo  by  way  of  compensation,  and  almost 
as  a  punishment;  but  the  words  again  shot  across  his  mind — 


304  MANZONI 

Compassion  in  Nibbio! — What  can  this  girl  have  done?  con- 
tinued he,  following  out  the  thought;  I  must  see  her.  Yet 
no — yes,  I  will  see  her. 

He  went  from  one  room  to  another,  came  to  the  foot  of 
a  flight  of  stairs,  and  irresolutely  ascending,  proceeded  to  the 
old  woman's  apartment;  here  he  knocked  with  his  foot  at  the 
door. 

"Who's  there?" 

"  Open  the  door." 

The  old  woman  made  three  bounds  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice;  the  bolt  was  quickly  heard  grating  harshly  in  the  sta- 
ples, and  the  door  was  thrown  wide  open.  The  Unnamed 
cast  a  glance  round  the  room,  as  he  paused  in  the  doorway; 
and  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  which  stood  on  a  three-legged  table, 
discovered  Lucia  crouched  down  on  the  floor,  in  the  corner 
farthest  from  the  entrance. 

**  Who  bid  you  throw  her  there,  like  a  bag  of  rags,  you 
uncivil  old  beldame?"  said  he  to  the  aged  matron,  with  an 
angry  frown. 

*' She  chose  it  herself,"  replied  she,  in  an  humble  tone; 
"  I've  done  my  best  to  encourage  her;  she  caTi  tell  you  so  her- 
self; but  she  won't  mind  me." 

"  Get  up,"  said  he  to  Lucia,  approaching  her.  But  she, 
whose  already  terrified  mind  had  experienced  a  fresh  and 
mysterious  addition  to  her  terror  at  the  knocking,  the  open- 
ing of  the  door,  his  footstep,  and  his  voice,  only  gathered  her- 
self still  closer  into  the  corner,  and,  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  remained  perfectly  motionless,  excepting  that  she  trem- 
bled from  head  to  foot. 

"  Get  up ;  I  will  do  you  no  harm  ....  and  I  can  do  you 
some  good,"  repeated  the  Signor  .  .  .  .  "  Get  up!  "  thundered 
he  forth  at  last,  irritated  at  having  twice  commanded  in 
vain. 

As  if  invigorated  by  fear,  the  unhappy  girl  instantly  raised 
herself  upon  her  knees,  and  joining  her  hands,  as  she  would 
have  knelt  before  a  sacred  image,  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  face 
of  the  Unnamed,  and  instantly  dropping  them,  said:  "  Here  I 
am;  kill  me  if  you  will." 

"  I  have  told  you  I  w^ould  do  you  no  harm,"  replied  the 
Unnamed,  in  a  softened  tone,  gazing  at  her  agonized  features 
of  grief  and  terror. 

"  Courage,  courage,"  said  the  old  woman;  "if  he  himself 
tells  you  he  will  do  you  no  harm  .  .  .  ." 

"  And  why,"  rejoined  Lucia,  with  a  voice  in  which  the 
daring  of  despairing  indignation  was  mingled  with  the  tremor 


THE   BETROTHED  305 

of  fear,  "why  make  me  suffer  the  agonies  of  hell?  What 
have  I  done  to  you?  .  .  .  ." 

"  Perhaps  they  have  treated  you  badly?     Tell  me  .  .  .  ." 

"  Treated  me  badly!  They  have  seized  me  by  treachery — 
by  force!  Why — why  have  they  seized  me?  Why  am  I  here? 
Where  am  I?  I  am  a  poor  harmless  girl.  What  have  I  done 
to  you?     In  the  name  of  God  .  .  .  ." 

**  God,  God!"  interrupted  the  Unnamed,  "always  God! 
They  who  can  not  defend  themselves — who  have  not  the 
strength  to  do  it,  must  always  bring  forward  this  God,  as  if 
they  had  spoken  to  him.  What  do  you  expect  by  this  word? 
To  make  me  ....   ?  "  and  he  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

"  O  Signor,  expect !  What  can  a  poor  girl  like  me  expect, 
except  that  you  should  have  mercy  upon  me?  God  pardons 
so  many  sins  for  one  deed  of  mercy.  Let  me  go;  for  char- 
ity's sake,  let  me  go.  It  will  do  no  good  to  one  who  must 
die,  to  make  a  poor  creature  suffer  thus.  Oh!  you  who  can 
give  the  command,  bid  them  let  me  go!  They  brought  me 
here  by  force.  Bid  them  send  me  again  with  this  woman, 
and  take  me  to  *  *  *,  where  my  mother  is.  Oh!  most  holy 
Virgin!  My  mother!  my  mother! — for  pity's  sake,  my  moth- 
er. Perhaps  she  is  not  far  from  here  ....  I  saw  my  moun- 
tains. Why  do  you  give  me  all  this  suffering?  Bid  them 
take  me  to  a  church;  I  will  pray  for  you  all  my  life.  What 
will  it  cost  you  to  say  one  word?  Oh,  see!  you  are  moved  to 
pity:  say  one  word,  oh  say  it!  God  pardons  so  many  sins  for 
one  deed  of  mercy!  " 

Oh,  why  isn't  she  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  rascally  dogs 
that  outlawed  me!  thought  the  Unnamed;  of  one  of  the 
villains  who  wish  me  dead;  then  I  should  enjoy  her  sufferings; 
but  instead  .... 

"  Don't  drive  away  a  good  inspiration!  "  continued  Lucia, 
earnestly,  reanimated  by  seeing  a  certain  air  of  hesitation  in 
the  countenance  and  behaviour  of  her  oppressor.  "  If  you 
don't  grant  me  this  mercy,  the  Lord  will  do  it  for  me.  I  shall 
die,  and  all  will  be  over  with  me;  but  you  ....  Perhaps, 
some  day,  even  you  ....  But  no,  no;  I  will  always  pray  the 
Lord  to  keep  you  from  every  evil.  What  will  it  cost  you 
to  say  one  word?  If  you  knew  what  it  was  to  suffer  this 
agony!  .  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  take  courage,"  interrupted  the  Unnamed,  with  a 
gentleness  that  astonished  the  old  woman.  "  Have  I  done  you 
any  harm?     Have  I  threatened  you?" 

"  Oh  no!  I  see  that  you  have  a  kind  heart,  and  feel  some 
pity  for  an  unhappy  creature.  If  you  chose,  you  could  terrify 
20 


3o6 


MANZONI 


me  more  than  all  the  others:  you  could  kill  me  with  fear;  but 
instead  of  that,  you  have  ....  rather  lightened  my  heart; 
God  will  reward  you  for  it.  Finish  your  deed  of  mercy:  set 
me  free,  set  me  free.'* 

"  To-morrow  morning  .  .  .  ." 

"  Oh!  set  me  free  now — now  .  .  .  ." 

"  To-morrow  morning,  I  will  see  you  again,  I  say.  Come, 
in  the  mean  while,  be  of  good  courage.  Take  a  little  rest; 
you  must  want  something  to  eat.  They  shall  bring  you 
something  directly." 

"  No,  no ;  I  shall  die,  if  anybody  comes  here ;  I  shall  die ! 
Take  me  to  a  church  ....  God  will  reward  you  for  that 
step." 

"  A  woman  shall  bring  you  something  to  eat,"  said  the 
Unnamed;  and  having  said  so,  he  stood  wondering  at  him- 
self how  such  a  remedy  had  entered  his  mind,  and  how  the 
wish  had  arisen  to  seek  a  rerhedy  for  the  sorrows  of  a  poor 
humble  villager. 

"  And  you,"  resumed  he  hastily,  turning  to  the  aged  ma- 
tron, "  persuade  her  to  eat  something,  and  let  her  lie  down  to 
rest  on  this  bed;  and  if  she  is  willing  to  have  you  as  a  com- 
panion, well;  if  not,  you  can  sleep  well  enough  for  one  night 
on  the  floor.  Encourage  her,  I  say,  and  keep  her  cheerful. 
Beware  that  she  has  no  cause  to  complain  of  you." 

So  saying,  he  moved  quickly  toward  the  door.  Lucia 
sprang  up,  and  ran  to  detain  him,  and  renew  her  entreaties; 
but  he  was  gone. 

*'  Oh,  poor  me!  Shut  the  door  quickly."  And  having 
heard  the  door  closed,  and  the  bolt  again  drawn,  she  returned 
to  seat  herself  in  her  corner.  *'  Oh,  poor  me!  "  repeated  she, 
sobbing;  "whom  shall  I  implore  now?  Where  am  I?  Do 
you  tell  me — tell  me,  for  pity's  sake,  who  is  this  Signor  .... 
he  who  has  been  speaking  to  me?" 

"  Who  is  he,  eh? — who  is  he?  Do  you  think  I  may  tell 
you?  Wait  till  he  tells  you  himself.  You  are  proud,  because 
he  protects  you;  and  you  want  to  be  satisfied,  and  make  me 
your  go-between.  Ask  him  himself.  If  I  were  to  tell  you 
this,  I  shouldn't  get  the  good  words  he  has  just  given  you. 
I  am  an  old  woman,  an  old  woman,"  continued  she,  muttering 
between  her  teeth.  "  Hang  these  young  folks,  who  may  make 
a  fine  show  of  either  laughing  or  crying,  just  as  they  like,  and 
yet  are  always  in  the  right."  But  hearing  Lucia's  sobs,  and 
the  commands  of  her  master  returning  in  a  threatening  man- 
ner to  her  memory,  she  stooped  toward  the  poor  crouching 
girl,   and,   in   a   gentler   and   more   humane   tone,   resumed: 


THE   BETROTHED  307 

"  Come,  I  have  said  no  harm  to  you;  be  cheerful.  Don't  ask 
me  questions  which  I  have  no  business  to  answer;  but  pluck 
up  heart,  my  good  girl.  Ah!  if  you  knew  how  many  people 
would  be  glad  to  hear  him  speak,  as  he  has  spoken  to  you! 
Be  cheerful,  for  he  will  send  you  something  to  eat  just  now; 
and  I  know  ....  by  the  way  he  spoke,  I'm  sure  it  will  be 
something  good.  And  then  you  will  lie  down,  and  ....  you 
will  leave  just  a  little  corner  for  me,"  added  she,  with  an  ac- 
cent of  suppressed  rancour. 

''  I  don't  want  to  eat,  I  don't  want  to  sleep.  Let  me 
alone;  don't  come  near  me;  but  you  won't  leave  the  room?" 

*'  No,  no,  not  I,"  said  the  old  woman,  drawing  back,  and 
seating  herself  on  an  old  arm-chair,  whence  she  cast  sundry 
glances  of  alarm,  and  at  the  same  time  of  envy,  toward  the 
poor  girl.  Then  she  looked  at  the  bed,  vexed  at  the  idea  of 
being,  perhaps,  excluded  from  it  for  the  whole  night,  and 
grumbling  at  the  cold.  But  she  comforted  herself  with  the 
thoughts  of  supper,  and  with  the  hope  that  there  might  be 
some  to  spare  for  her.  Lucia  was  sensible  of  neither  cold 
nor  hunger,  and,  almost  as  if  deprived  of  her  senses,  had  but  a 
confused  idea  of  her  very  grief  and  terror,  like  the  undefined 
objects  seen  by  a  delirious  patient. 

She  roused  herself,  when  she  heard  a  knocking  at  the 
door;  and  raising  her  head,  exclaimed,  in  much  alarm,  "Who's 
there? — who's  there?     Don't  let  any  one  in!  " 

"Nobody,  nobody;  good  news!"  said  the  old  woman; 
"  it's  Martha  bringing  something  to  eat." 

"  Shut  the  door,  shut  the  door!  "  cried  Lucia. 

"Ay,  directly,"  replied  the  old  lady;  and  taking  a  basket 
out  of  Martha's  hand,  she  hastily  nodded  to  her,  shut  the 
door,  and  came  and  set  the  basket  on  a  table,  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  She  then  repeatedly  invited  Lucia  to  come  and 
partake  of  the  tempting  repast,  and  employing  words,  which, 
according  to  her  ideas,  were  most  likely  to  be  efficacious  in 
restoring  the  poor  girl's  appetite,  broke  forth  into  exclama- 
tions on  the  excellence  of  the  food : — "  Morsels  which,  when 
common  people  have  once  got  a  taste,  they  don't  forget  in 
a  hurry!  Wine,  which  her  master  drank  with  his  friends 
....  when  any  of  them  happened  to  arrive  ....  and  they 
wanted  to  be  merry!  Hem!"  But  seeing  that  all  these 
charms  produced  no  effect — "  It  is  you  who  won't  eat,"  said 
she.  "  Don't  you  be  saying  to-morrow  that  I  didn't  try  to 
persuade  you.  I'll  eat  something,  however;  and  then  there'll 
be  more  than  enough  left  for  you,  when  you  come  to  your 
senses,  and  are  willing  to  do  as  you  are  bid."     So  saying,  she 


3o8  MANZONI 

applied  hefself  with  avidity  to  the  refreshments.  When  she 
had  satisfied  herself,  she  rose,  advanced  toward  the  corner, 
and  bending  over  Lucia,  again  invited  her  to  take  something, 
and  then  lie  down. 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  want  anything,"  replied  she,  with  a  feeble 
and  almost  drowsy  voice.  Then  with  more  energy  she  con- 
tinued: ''  Is  the  door  locked? — is  it  well  secured?  "  And  hav- 
ing looked  around,  she  rose,  and  feeling  with  her  hands, 
walked  with  a  suspicious  step  toward  the  door. 

The  old  woman  sprang  thither  before  her,  stretched  out 
her  hand  to  the  lock,  seized  the  handle,  shook  it,  rattled  the 
bolt,  and  made  it  grate  against  the  staple  that  received  and 
secured  it.  Do  you  hear? — do  you  see? — is  it  w^ell  locked? 
Are  you  content  now?" 

"Oh,  content!  I  content  here!"  said  Lucia,  again  ar- 
ranging herself  in  her  corner.  "  But  the  Lord  knows  I'm 
here!" 

"  Come  to  bed;  what  would  you  do  there,  crouching  like 
a  dog?  Did  ever  anybody  see  a  person  refuse  comforts,  when 
he  could  get  them?  " 

"  No,  no;  let  me  alone." 

"  Well,  it's  your  own  wish.  See,  I'll  leave  you  the  best 
place;  I'm  lying  here  on  the  very  edge;  I  shall  be  uncom- 
fortable enough,  for  your  sake.  If  you  want  to  come  to  bed, 
you  know  what  you  have  to  do.  Remember,  I've  asked  you 
very  often."  So  saying,  she  crept,  dressed  as  she  was,  under 
the  counterpane,  and  soon  all  was  silent. 

Lucia  remained  motionless,  shrunk  up  into  the  corner,  her 
knees  drawn  close  to  her  breast,  her  hands  resting  on  her 
knees,  and  her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  She  was  neither 
asleep  nor  awake,  but  worn  out  with  a  rapid  succession — a 
tumultuous  alternation,  of  thoughts,  anticipations,  and  heart- 
throbbings.  Recalled,  in  some  degree,  to  consciousness,  and 
recollecting  more  distinctly  the  horrors  she  had  seen  and  suf- 
fered that  terrible  day,  she  would  now  dwell  mournfully  on 
the  dark  and  formidable  realities  in  wdiich  she  found  herself 
involved;  then,  her  mind  being  carried  onward  into  a  still 
more  obscure  region,  she  had  to  struggle  against  the  phan- 
toms conjured  up  by  uncertainty  and  terror.  In  this  distress- 
ing state  she  continued  for  a  long  time,  which  we  would  here 
prefer  to  pass  over  rapidly;  but  at  length,  exhausted  and  over- 
come, she  relaxed  her  hold  on  her  benumbed  limbs,  and  sink- 
ing at  full  length  upon  the  floor,  remained  for  some  time  in  a 
state  more  closely  resembling  real  sleep.  But  suddenly  awak- 
ing, as  at  some  inward  call,  she  tried  to  rouse  herself  complete- 


THE   BETROTHED 


309 


ly,  to  regain  her  scattered  senses,  and  to  remember  where  she 
was,  and  how,  and  why.  She  hstened  to  some  sound  that 
caught  her  ear;  it  was  the  slow,  deep  breathing  of  the  old 
woman.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  a  faint  light,  now 
glimmering  for  a  moment,  and  then  again  dying  away:  it  was 
the  wick  of  the  lamp,  which,  almost  ready  to  expire,  emitted 
a  tremulous  gleam,  and  quickly  drew  it  back,  so  to  say,  like 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  a  wave  on  the  sea-shore;  and  thus,  with- 
drawing from  the  surrounding  objects  ere  there  was  time  to 
display  them  in  distinct  colouring  and  relief,  it  merely  pre- 
sented to  the  eye  a  succession  of  confused  and  indistinct 
glimpses.  But  the  recent  impressions  she  had  received  quick- 
ly returned  to  her  mind,  and  assisted  her  in  distinguishing 
what  appeared  so  disorderly  to  her  visual  organs.  When 
fully  aroused,  the  unhappy  girl  recognized  her  prison;  all  the 
recollections  of  the  horrible  day  that  was  fled,  all  the  uncertain 
terrors  of  the  future,  rushed  at  once  upon  her  mind:  the  very 
calm  in  which  she  now  found  herself  after  so  much  agitation, 
the  sort  of  repose  she  had  just  tasted,  the  desertion  in  which 
she  was  left,  all  combined  to  inspire  her  with  new  dread,  till, 
overcome  by  alarm,  she  earnestly  longed  for  death.  But  at 
this  juncture,  she  remembered  that  she  could  still  pray;  and 
with  that  thought  there  seemed  to  shine  forth  a  sudden  ray  of 
comfort.  She  once  more  took  out  her  rosary,  and  began  to 
repeat  the  prayers;  and  in  proportion  as  the  words  fell  from 
her  trembling  lips,  she  felt  an  indefinite  confiding  faith  taking 
possession  of  her  heart.  Suddenly  another  thought  rushed 
into  her  mind,  that  her  prayer  might,  perhaps,  be  more  readily 
accepted,  and  more  certainly  heard,  if  she  were  to  make  some 
offering  in  her  desolate  condition.  She  tried  to  remember 
what  she  most  prized,  or,  rather,  what  she  had  once  most 
prized ;  for  at  this  moment  her  heart  could  feel  no  other  affec- 
tion than  that  of  fear,  nor  conceive  any  other  desire  than  that 
of  deliverance.  She  did  remember  it,  and  resolved  at  once 
to  make  the  sacrifice.  Rising  upon  her  knees,  and  clasping 
her  hands,  from  whence  the  rosary  was  suspended  before  her 
breast,  she  raised  her  face  and  eyes  to  heaven,  and  said:  "  O 
most  holy  Virgin !  thou  to  whom  I  have  so  often  recommended 
myself,  and  who  hast  so  often  comforted  me! — thou  who  hast 
borne  so  many  sorrows,  and  art  now  so  glorious  !^hou  who 
hast  wrought  so  many  miracles  for  the  poor  and  afflicted,  help 
me!  Bring  me  out  of  this  danger;  bring  me  safely  to  my 
mother,  O  Mother  of  our  Lord ;  and  I  vow  unto  thee  to  con- 
tinue a  virgin!  I  renounce  for  ever  my  unfortunate  betrothed, 
that  from  henceforth  I  may  belong  only  to  thee !  " 


310  MANZONI 

Having  uttered  these  words,  she  bowed  her  head,  and 
placed  the  beads  around  her  neck,  almost  as  a  token  of  her  con- 
secration, and,  at  the  same  time,  as  a  safeguard,  a  part  of  the 
armour  for  the  new  warfare  to  which  she  had  devoted  herself. 
Seating  herself  again  on  the  floor,  a  kind  of  tranquillity,  a 
more  childlike  reliance,  gradually  diffused  themselves  over 
her  soul.  The  to-morrozv  morning,  repeated  by  the  unknown 
nobleman,  came  to  her  mind,  and  seemed  to  her  ear  to  con- 
vey a  promise  of  deliverance.  Her  senses,  wearied  by  such 
struggles,  gradually  gave  way  before  these  soothing  thoughts; 
until  at  length,  toward  daybreak,  and  with  the  name  of  her 
protectress  upon  her  lips,  Lucia  sank  into  a  profound  and  un- 
broken sleep. 

But  in  this  same  castle  there  was  one  who  would  willingly 
have  followed  her  example,  yet  who  tried  in  vain.  After  de- 
parting, or  rather  escaping,  from  Lucia,  giving  orders  for  her 
supper,  and  paying  his  customary  visits  to  several  posts  in  his 
castle,  with  her  image  ever  vividly  before  his  eyes,  and  her 
words  resounding  in  his  ears,  the  nobleman  had  hastily  re- 
tired to  his  chamber,  impetuously  shut  the  door  behind  him, 
and  hurriedly  undressing,  had  lain  down.  But  that  image, 
which  now  more  closely  than  ever  haunted  his  mind,  seemed 
at  that  moment  to  say:  "Thou  shalt  not  sleep!"  What  ab- 
surd womanly  curiosity  tempted  me  to  go  see  her?  thought 
he.  That  fool  of  a  Nibbio  was  right:  one  is  no  longer  a  man; 
yes,  one  is  no  longer  a  man!  ....  I?  ...  .  am  I  no  longer 
a  man?  What  has  happened?  What  devil  has  got  posses- 
sion of  me?  What  is  there  new  in  all  this?  Didn't  I  know, 
before  now,  that  women  always  weep  and  implore?  Even  men 
do  sometimes,  vv^hen  they  have  not  the  power  to  rebel.  What 
the'— ^-i-!  have  I  never  heard  women  cry  before? 

And  here,  without  giving  himself  much  trouble  to  task  his 
memory,  it  suggested  to  him,  of  its  own  accord,  more  than 
one  instance,  in  which  neither  entreaties  nor  lamentations 
availed  to  deter  him  from  the  completion  of  enterprises  upon 
which  he  had  once  resolved.  But  these  remembrances,  in- 
stead of  inspiring  him  with  the  courage  he  now  needed  to 
prosecute  his  present  design,  as  it  would  seem  he  expected 
and  wished  they  might,  instead  of  helping  to  dispel  his  feel- 
ings of  compassion,  only  added  to  them  those  of  terror  and 
consternation,  until  they  compelled  him  to  return  to  that  first 
image  of  Lucia,  against  which  he  had  been  seeking  to  fortify 
his  courage.  "  She  still  lives,"  said  he:  ''  She  is  here;  I  am  in 
time;  I  can  yet  say  to  her,  Go,  and  be  happy;  I  can  yet  see 
that  countenance  change;  I  can  even  say,  Forgive  me  .... 


THE   BETROTHED 


3" 


Forgive  me?  I  ask  forgiveness?  And  of  a  woman,  too?  I? 
....  Ah,  however!  if  one  word,  one  such  word  could  do  me 
good,  could  rid  me  of  the  demon  that  now  possesses  me,  I 
would  say  it;  yes,  I  feel  that  I  would  say  it.  To  what  am  I 
reduced!  I'm  no  longer  a  man;  surely,  no  longer  a  man! 
.  .  .  .  Away!"  said  he,  turning  himself  with  impetuosity  on 
the  couch  which  had  now  become  so  hard,  under  the  covering 
which  had  now  become  so  intolerable  a  weight:  '*  Away!  these 
are  fooleries  which  have  many  a  time  passed  through  my  head. 
This  will  take  its  flight  too." 

And  to  efifect  such  a  riddance,  he  began  seeking  some  im- 
portant subject,  some  of  the  many  which  often  so  busily  occu- 
pied his  mind,  in  hopes  he  might  be  entirely  engrossed  by  it; 
but  he  sought  in  vain.  All  appeared  changed:  that  which 
once  most  urgently  stimulated  his  desires,  now  no  longer  pos- 
sessed any  charms  for  him:  his  passions,  like  a  steed  suddenly 
become  restive  at  the  sight  of  a  shadow,  refused  to  carry  him 
any  further.  In  reflecting  on  enterprises  engaged  in,  and  not 
yet  concluded,  instead  of  animating  himself  to  their  comple- 
tion, and  feeling  irritated  at  the  obstacles  interposed  (for  anger 
at  this  moment  would  have  been  sweet  to  him),  he  felt  regret, 
nay,  almost  consternation,  at  the  steps  already  taken.  His 
life  presented  itself  to  his  mind  devoid  of  all  interest,  deprived 
of  all  will,  divested  of  every  action,  and  only  laden  with  in- 
supportable recollections;  every  hour  resembling  that  which 
now  rolled  so  slowly  and  heavily  over  his  head.  He  drew  out 
before  his  fancy  all  his  rufHans  in  a  kind  of  battle-array,  and 
could  contrive  nothing  of  importance  in  which  to  employ  one 
of  them;  nay,  the  very  idea  of  seeing  them  again,  and  mixing 
among  them,  was  an  additional  weight,  a  fresh  object  of  an- 
noyance and  detestation.  And  when  he  sought  an  occupation 
for  the  morrow,  a  feasible  employment,  he  could  only  remem- 
ber that,  on  the  morrow,  he  might  liberate  his  unfortunate 
prisoner. 

I  will  set  her  free;  yes,  I  will.  I  will  fly  to  her  by  day- 
break, and  bid  her  depart  safely.  She  shall  be  accompanied 
by  ...  .  And  my  promise?  My  engagement?  Don  Ro- 
drigo?  ....  Who  is  Don  Rodrigo? 

Like  one  suddenly  surprised  by  an  unexpected  and  em- 
barrassing question  from  a  superior,  the  Unnamed  hastily 
sought  for  an  answer  to  the  query  he  had  just  put  to  himself, 
or  rather  which  had  been  suggested  to  him  by  that  new  voice 
which  had  all  at  once  made  itself  heard,  and  sprung  up  to  be, 
as  it  were,  a  judge  of  his  former  self.  He  tried  to  imagine 
any  reasons  which  could  have  induced  him,  almost  before  be- 


312 


MANZONI 


ing  requested,  to  engage  in  inflicting  so  much  suffering,  with- 
out  any  incentives  of  hatred  or  fear,  on  a  poor  unknown  crea- 
ture, only  to  render  a  service  to  this  man;  but  instead  of 
succeeding  in  discovering  such  motives  as  he  would  now  have 
deemed  sufficient  to  excuse  the  deed,  he  could  not  even  im- 
imagine  how  he  had  ever  been  induced  to  undertake  it.  The 
willingness,  rather  than  the  determination  to  do  so,  had  been 
the  instantaneous  impulse  of  a  mind  obedient  to  its  old  and 
habitual  feelings,  the  consequence  of  a  thousand  antecedent 
actions;  and  to  account  for  this  one  deed,  the  unhappy  self- 
examiner  found  himself  involved  in  an  examination  of  his 
whole  life.  Backward  from  year  to  year,  from  engagement 
to  engagement,  from  bloodshed  to  bloodshed,  from  crime  to 
crime,  each  one  stood  before  his  conscience-stricken  soul, 
divested  of  the  feelings  which  had  induced  him  to  will  and 
commit  it,  and  therefore  appearing  in  all  its  monstrousness, 
which  those  feelings  had,  at  the  time,  prevented  his  perceiving. 
They  were  all  his  own,  they  made  up  himself;  and  the  horror 
of  this  thought,  renewed  with  each  fresh  remembrance,  and 
cleaving  to  all,  increased  at  last  to  desperation.  He  sprang 
up  impetuously  in  his  bed,  eagerly  stretched  out  his  hand  to- 
ward the  wall  at  his  side,  touched  a  pistol,  grasped  it,  reached 
it  down,  and  ....  at  the  moment  of  finishing  a  life  which 
had  become  insupportable,  his  thoughts,  seized  with  terror  and 
a  (so  to  say)  superstitious  dread,  rushed  forward  to  the  time 
which  would  still  continue  to  flow  on  after  his  end.  He  pic- 
tured with  horror  his  disfigured  corpse,  lying  motionless,  and 
in  the  power  of  his  vilest  survivor;  the  astonishment,  the  con- 
fusion of  the  castle  in  the  morning:  everything  turned  upside 
down ;  and  he,  powerless  and  voiceless,  thrown  aside,  he  knew 
not  whither.  He  fancied  the  reports  that  would  be  spread, 
the  conversations  to  which  it  would  give  rise,  both  in  the 
castle,  the  neighbourhood,  and  at  a  distance,  together  with  the 
rejoicings  of  his  enemies.  The  darkness  and  silence  around 
him  presented  death  in  a  still  more  mournful  and  frightful  as- 
pect; it  seemed  to  him  that  he  would  not  have  hesitated  in 
open  day,  out  of  doors,  and  in  the  presence  of  spectators,  to 
throw  himself  into  the  water,  and  vanish.  Absorbed  in  such 
tormenting  reflections,  he  continued  alternately  snapping  and 
unsnapping  the  cock  of  his  pistol  with  a  convulsive  movement 
of  his  thumb,  when  another  thought  flashed  across  his  mind. — 
If  this  other  life,  of  which  they  told  me  when  I  w^as  a  boy,  of 
which  everybody  talks  now,  as  if  it  were  a  certain  thing,  if 
there  be  not  such  a  thing,  if  it  be  an  invention  of  the  priests; 
what  am  I  doing?  why  should  I  die?  what  matters  all  that  I 


THE   BETROTHED  313 

have  done?  what  matters  it?     It  is  an  absurdity,  my  .... 
But  if  there  really  be  another  life! 

At  such  a  doubt,  at  such  a  risk,  he  was  seized  with  a 
blacker  and  deeper  despair,  from  which  even  death  afiforded 
no  escape.  He  dropped  the  pistol,  and  lay  with  his  fingers 
twined  among  his  hair,  his  teeth  chattering,  and  trembling  in 
every  limb.  Suddenly  the  words  he  had  heard  repeated  a 
few  hours  before  rose  to  his  remembrance,  *'  God  pardons  so 
many  sins  for  one  deed  of  mercy !  "  They  did  not  come  to  him 
with  that  tone  of  humble  supplication  in  which  they  had  been 
pronounced;  they  came  with  a  voice  of  authority,  which  at 
the  same  time  excited  a  distant  glimmering  of  hope.  It  was  a 
moment  of  relief:  he  raised  his  hands  from  his  temples,  and, 
in  a  more  composed  attitude,  fixed  his  mind's  eye  on  her  who 
had  uttered  the  words;  she  seemed  to  him  no  longer  like  his 
prisoner  and  suppliant,  but  in  the  posture  of  one  who  dispenses 
mercy  and  consolation.  He  anxiously  awaited  the  dawn  of 
day,  that  he  might  fly  to  liberate  her,  and  to  hear  from  her 
lips  other  words  of  alleviation  and  life,  and  even  thought  of 
conducting  her  himself  to  her  mother. — And  then?  what  shall 
I  do  to-morrow  for  the  rest  of  the  day?  What  shall  I  do  the 
day  after  to-morrow?  And  the  day  after  that  again?  And 
at  night?  the  night  which  will  return  in  twelve  hours?  Oh, 
the  night!  no,  no,  the  night! — And  falling  again  into  the 
weary  void  of  the  future,  he  sought  in  vain  for  some  employ- 
ment of  time,  some  way  of  living  through  the  days  and  nights. 
One  moment  he  proposed  leaving  his  castle,  and  going  into 
some  distant  country,  where  he  had  never  been  known  or 
heard  of;  but  he  felt  that  he  should  carry  himself  with  him. 
Then  a  dark  hope  would  arise  that  he  should  resume  his  for- 
mer courage  and  inclinations,  and  that  this  would  prove  only  a 
transient  delirium.  Now  he  dreaded  the  light  which  would 
show  him  to  his  followers  so  miserably  changed;  then  he 
longed  for  it,  as  if  it  would  bring  light  also  to  his  gloomy 
thoughts.  And,  lo;  about  break  of  day,  a  few  moments  after 
Lucia  had  fallen  asleep,  while  he  was  seated  motionless  in  his 
bed,  a  floating  and  confused  murmur  reached  his  ear,  bringing 
with  it  something  joyous  and  festive  in  its  sound.  Assuming 
a  listening  posture,  he  distinguished  a  distant  chiming  of  bells; 
and,  giving  still  more  attention,  could  hear  the  mountain  echo, 
every  now  and  then,  languidly  repeating  the  harmony,  and 
mingling  itself  with  it.  Immediately  aftervrard  his  ear  caught 
another,  and  still  nearer  peal:  then  another,  and  another. — 
What  rejoicings  are  these?  What  are  they  all  so  merry  about? 
What  is  their  cause  of  gladness? — He  sprang  from  his  bed  of 


314 


MANZONI 


thorns;  and,  half-dressing  himself  in  haste,  went  to  the  win- 
dow, threw  up  the  sash,  and  looked  out.  The  mountains  were 
still  wrapt  in  gloom ;  the  sky  was  not  so  much  cloudy,  as  com- 
posed of  one  entire  lead-coloured  cloud;  but  by  the  already 
glimmering  light  of  day,  he  distinguished  in  the  road,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  valley,  numbers  of  people  passing  eagerly  along 
— some  leaving  their  dwellings  and  moving  on  with  the  crowd, 
and  all  taking  the  same  direction  toward  the  outlet  of  the  vale 
on  the  right  of  the  castle;  he  could  even  distinguish  the  joy- 
/Dus  bearing  and  holiday  dress  of  the  passengers. — What  the 
is  the  matter  with  these  people?  What  cause  of  merri- 
ment can  there  be  in  this  cursed  neighbourhood? — And  calling 
a  confidential  bravo  who  slept  in  the  adjoining  room,  he  asked 
him  what  was  the  cause  of  this  movement.  The  man  replied 
that  he  knew  no  more  than  his  master,  but  would  go  directly 
to  make  inquiry.  The  Signor  remained  with  his  eyes  riveted 
upon  the  moving  spectacle,  which  increasing  day  rendered 
every  moment  more  distinct.  He  watched  crowds  pass  by, 
and  new  crowds  constantly  appear;  men,  women,  children,  in 
groups,  in  couples,  or  alone;  one,  overtaking  another  who 
was  before  him,  walked  in  company  with  him;  another,  just 
leaving  his  door,  accompanied  the  first  he  fell  in  with  by  the 
way;  and  so  they  proceeded  together,  like  friends  in  a  precon- 
certed journey.  Their  behaviour  evidently  indicated  a  com- 
mon haste  and  joy;  and  the  unharmonious  but  simultaneous 
burst  of  the  different  chimes,  some  more,  some  less  con- 
tiguous and  distinct,  seemed,  so  to  say,  the  common  voice  of 
these  gestures,  and  a  supplement  to  the  words  which  could 
not  reach  him  from  below.  He  looked  and  looked,  till  he 
felt  more  than  common  curiosity  to  know  what  could  com- 
municate so  unanimous  a  will,  so  general  a  festivity,  to  so 
many  different  people. 


CARDINAL  FEDERIGO  BOKROMEO. 

Photogravure  from  a  drawing;  mside  for  this  work. 


MANZONF 

thorns;  :  :,  went  to  the  win- 

dow, thr-  i'he  mountains  were 

still  wrai  '  much  cloudy,  as  com- 

posed 1;  but  by  the  already 

'■  Mn  the  road^  at  the 

.^sing  eagerly  along 

.  on  with  the  crowd, 

'::t  of  the  vale 

'     '^aish  the  joy- 

ongers. — What  the 

'■  cause  of  merri- 

i? — And  calling 

room,  he  asked 

]  he  man  replied 

)uld  go  directly 

his  eyes  riveted 

oving  sp'  rendered 


^    -  -  ^y, 

in 

•        '  \   jUSt 

A... :.=y  the 

;d  togethc  .1  precon- 

iour  e  ated  a  com- 

'^■^:^^  ..^  Mmultaneous 

some   less   con- 

,  the  common  voice  of 

;.  .  ..  ..„  1,   ..  i,j^j^  could 

■  1,  till  he 

could  com- 

to  so 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SHORTLY  afterward  the  bravo  returned  with  the  infor- 
mation that  Cardinal  Federigo  Borromeo,  Archbishop 
of  Milan,  had  arrived  the  day  before  at  ,  with  the 

purpose  of  spendingthere  that  which  was  nowjust  dawn- 
ing; that  the  news  of  his  arrival,  which  had  been  spread  around 
for  a  considerable  distance  the  preceding  evening,  had  ex- 
cited a  desire  in  the  people  to  go  and  see  this  great  man;  and 
that  the  bells  were  ringing,  both  to  express  their  joy,  and 
more  widely  to  diffuse  the  glad  intelligence.  When  again 
alone,  the  Signor  continued  to  look  down  into  the  valley,  still 
more  absorbed  in  thought. — For  a  man!  Everybody  eager, 
everybody  joyful,  at  the  sight  of  a  man!  And  yet,  doubtless, 
each  had  his  own  demon  that  torments  him.  But  none,  none 
will  have  one  like  mine!  None  will  have  passed  such  a  night 
as  I  have!  What  has  this  man  about  him  to  make  so  many 
people  merry?  Some  pence,  perhaps,  that  he  will  distribute 
at  random  among  them  ....  But  all  these  can  not  be  going 
for  alms.  Well,  then,  a  few  acknowledgments  and  saluta- 
tions— a  word  or  two  ....  Oh!  if  he  had  any  words  for  me 
that  could  impart  peace!  if!  ...  .  Why  shouldn't  I  go  too? 
Why  not?  ....  I  will  go!  what  else  can  I  do?  I  will  go; 
and  I  will  talk  with  him:  face  to  face  I'll  have  some  talk  with 
him.  What  shall  I  say,  though?  Well,  whatever,  whatever 
.  .  .  .  I'll  hear  first  what  the  man  has  to  say  for  himself! 

Flaving  come  to  this  vague  determination,  he  hastily  fin- 
ished dressing  himself,  and  put  on,  over  all,  a  great  coat,  which 
had  something  of  a  military  cut  about  it;  he  then  took  up  the 
pistol  which  lay  upon  the  bed,  and  secured  it  on  one  side  of 
his  belt,  fastening  at  the  other  its  fellow,  which  hung  upon  a 
nail  in  the  wall;  stuck  a  dagger  into  this  same  girdle;  and 
taking  from  the  wall  a  carabine  which  was  almost  as  famous 
as  himself,  swung  it  across  his  shoulders:  then  he  put  on  his 
hat,  quitted  the  apartment,  and  repaired  at  once  to  that  in 
which  he  had  left  Lucia.  Setting  down  his  carabine  in  a  cor- 
ner near  the  door,  he  knocked,  at  the  same  time  letting  them 

315 


3i6 


MANZONI 


know  by  his  voice  who  he  was.  The  old  woman  sprang  out 
of  bed,  threw  some  articles  of  clothing  around  her,  and  flew 
to  open  the  door.  The  Signor  entered,  and,  casting  a  glance 
around  the  room,  saw  Lucia  lying  in  her  little  corner,  and 
perfectly  quiet. 

*'  Does  she  sleep?"  asked  he,  in  an  under-tone,  of  the  old 
woman;  ''  but  she  is  sleeping  there?  Were  these  my  orders, 
you  old  hag? " 

''  I  did  all  I  could,"  replied  the  woman;  "  but  she  wouldn't 
eat,  and  she  wouldn't  come  .  .  .  ." 

"Let  her  sleep  quietly;  take  care  you  don't  disturb  her; 
and  when  she  awakes  ....  Martha  shall  wait  in  the  next 
room;  and  you  must  send  her  to  fetch  anything  that  she  may 
ask  for.  When  she  awakes  ....  tell  her  that  I  .  .  .  .  that 
the  master  has  gone  out  for  a  little  while,  that  he  will  be  back 
soon,  and  that  ....  he  will  do  all  that  she  wishes." 

The  old  woman  stood  perfectly  astonished,  thinking  to  her- 
self: This  girl  must  surely  be  some  princess! 

The  Signor  then  left  the  room,  took  up  his  carabine,  sent 
Martha  to  wait  in  the  adjoining  apartment,  and  the  first  bravo 
whom  he  met  to  keep  guard,  that  no  one  but  this  woman  might 
presume  to  approach  Lucia ;  and  then,  leaving  the  castle,  took 
the  descent  with  a  rapid  step. 

The  manuscript  here  fails  to  mention  the  distance  from 
the  castle  to  the  village  where  the  Cardinal  was  staying:  it 
can  not,  however,  have  been  more  than  a  moderate  walk.  We 
do  not  infer  the  proximity  merely  from  the  flocking  thither 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  valley;  since  we  find,  in, the  histories 
of  these  times,  that  people  came  for  twenty  miles,  or  more,  to 
get  but  one  sight  of  Cardinal  Federigo.  From  the  circum- 
stances that  we  are  about  to  relate,  as  happening  on  this  day, 
we  may,  however,  easily  conjecture  that  the  distance  can  not 
have  been  very  great.  The  bravoes  whom  he  met  ascending, 
stopped  respectfully  as  their  lord  passed,  waiting  to  see  if  he 
had  any  orders  to  give,  or  if  he  wished  any  of  them  to  accom- 
pany him  on  some  expedition,  and  seemed  perfectly  aston- 
ished at  his  countenance  and  the  glances  he  returned  in  answer 
to  their  salutations. 

When,  however,  he  reached  the  base,  and  entered  the  pub- 
lic road,  it  was  a  very  different  matter.  There  was  a  general 
whispering  among  the  first  passengers  who  observed  him,  an 
exchange  of  suspicious  looks,  and  an  endeavour  on  each  side 
to  get  out  of  his  reach.  For  the  whole  length  of  the  way  he 
could  not  take  two  steps  by  the  side  of  another  passenger;  for 
every  one  who  found  him  quickly  gaining  upon  him,  cast  an 


THE   BETROTHED 


317 


uneasy  look  around,  made  him  a  low  bow,  and  slackened  his 
pace  so  as  to  remain  behind.  On  reaching  the  village,  he 
found  a  large  crowd  assembled;  his  name  spread  rapidly  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  the  moment  he  made  his  appearance,  and 
the  throng  fell  back  to  make  way  for  him.  He  accosted  one 
of  these  prudent  gentry,  and  asked  where  the  Cardinal  was. 
'*  In  the  curate's  house,"  replied  the  person  addressed,  rever- 
ently, at  the  same  time  pointing  out  the  mansion.  The  Si- 
gnor  went  forward,  entered  a  little  court,  where  many  priests 
were  assembled,  all  of  whom  regarded  him  with  surprised  and 
doubtful  looks,  and  saw  before  him  an  open  door,  which  gave 
admission  into  a  small  hall,  where  there  was  also  collected  a 
considerable  number  of  priests.  Taking  his  carabine  from 
his  shoulders,  he  deposited  it  in  one  corner  of  the  little  court, 
and  then  entered  the  hall,  where  he  was  received  with  sig- 
nificant glances,  murmurs,  and  his  oft-repeated  name;  then  all 
was  silent.  Turning  to  one  of  those  who  surrounded  him, 
he  asked  where  the  Cardinal  was,  and  said  that  he  wished  to 
speak  to  him. 

"  I  am  a  stranger,"  replied  the  priest;  but  hastily  glancing 
around,  he  called  the  chaplain  and  cross-bearer,  who,  seated 
in  a  corner  of  the  hall,  was  saying,  in  an  under-tone,  to  his 
companion:  "This  man?  this  notorious  character?  what  can 
he  have  to  do  here?  Make  way!"  However,  at  this  call, 
which  resounded  in  the  general  silence,  he  was  obliged  to 
come  forward;  he  made  a  lowly  reverence  to  the  Unnamed, 
listened  to  his  inquiry,  raised  his  eyes  with  uneasy  curiosity 
toward  his  face,  and  instantly  bending  them  on  the  ground, 
stood  hesitating  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  or  rather  stam- 
mered out:  ''  I  don't  know  whether  his  illustrious  Lordship 
.  .  .  just  now  ...  is  to  be  ..  .  can  .  .  .  may  .  .  .  But  I 
will  go  and  see."  And  he  very  unwillingly  carried  the  mes- 
sage into  the  adjoining  room,  where  the  Cardinal  was  by 
himself. 

At  this  point  of  our  story,  we  can  not  do  less  than  pause  for 
a  little  while;  as  the  traveller,  wearied  and  worn  out  with  a 
lengthened  journey,  through  a  wild  and  sterile  country,  re- 
tards his  pace,  and  halts  for  a  little  time  under  the  shade  of  a 
noble  tree,  reclining  on  the  grassy  bank  of  a  stream  or  run- 
ning water.  We  have  now  fallen  upon  a  person,  whose  name 
and  memory,  occurring  when  they  will  to  the  mind,  refresh 
it  with  a  calm  emotion  of  reverence,  and  a  pleasurable  feeling 
of  sympathy;  how  much  more,  then,  after  so  many  mournful 
pictures — after  the  contemplation  of  such  fearful  and  hateful 
depravity!     On  the  history  of  this  personage,  we  must  abso- 


3i8  MANZONI 

lutely  expend  a  few  words;  he  who  cares  not  about  hearing 
them,  and  is  anxious  to  proceed  with  the  story,  may  pass  on  at 
once  to  the  succeeding  chapter. 

Federigo  Borromeo,  born  in  1564,  was  among  those  char- 
acters, rare  in  whatever  age,  who  have  employed  singular 
talents,  all  the  resources  of  great  wealth,  all  the  advantages 
of  privileged  rank,  and  an  unwearying  diligence  in  the  search 
and  exercise  of  the  highest  objects  and  principles.  His  life 
resembles  a  rivulet,  which,  issuing  limpid  from  the  rocks,  flows 
in  a  ceaseless  and  unruffled,  though  lengthened  course, 
through  various  lands,  and,  clear  and  limpid  still,  falls  at  last 
into  the  ocean.  Amid  comforts  and  luxuries,  he  attended, 
even  from  childhood,  to  those  lessons  of  self-denial  and  hu- 
mility, and  those  maxims  on  the  vanity  of  worldly  pleasures, 
and  the  sinfulness  of  pride,  on  true  dignity  and  true  riches, 
which,  whether  acknowledged  or  not  in  the  heart,  have  been 
transmitted  from  one  generation  to  another  in  the  most  ele- 
mentary instruction  in  religion.  He  attended,  I  say,  to  these 
lessons  and  maxims;  he  received  them  in  real  earnest;  he 
tried  them,  and  found  them  true ;  he  saw,  therefore,  that  other 
and  contrary  lessons  and  maxims  could  not  possibly  be  true, 
which  yet  were  transmitted  from  age  to  age,  with  the  same 
asseveration,  and  sometimes  by  the  same  lips;  and  he  re- 
solved to  take,  as  the  rule  of  his  thoughts  and  actions,  those 
which  were  indeed  right.  By  these  he  understood  that  life 
was  not  designed  to  be  a  burden  to  many,  and  a  pleasure  to 
only  a  few;  but  was  intended  as  a  time  of  employment  for  all, 
of  which  every  one  would  have  to  give  an  account;  and  he 
began  from  a  child  to  consider  how  he  could  render  his  useful 
and  holy. 

In  1580  he  declared  his  resolution  of  dedicating  himself 
to  the  ministry  of  the  Church,  and  received  ordination  from 
the  hands  of  his  cousin  Carlo,  whom  long  and  universal  suf- 
frage had  already  signalized  as  a  saint.  Shortly  afterward, 
he  entered  the  college  founded  by  this  relative  in  Pavia,  which 
still  bears  the  name  of  their  house;  and  here,  while  applying 
himself  with  assiduity  to  the  occupations  which  were  pre- 
scribed, he  added  to  them  two  others  of  his  own  free  will ;  and 
these  were,  to  give  instruction  to  the  most  ignorant  and  neg- 
lected among  the  population,  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Christian 
religion;  and  to  visit,  assist,  comfort,  and  relieve  the  sick 
and  needy.  He  employed  the  authority  conceded  to  him  by 
all  around,  in  inducing  his  companions  to  second  him  in  such 
works  of  charity;  and  set  a  noble  example  of  spending,  in 
every    honest    and    beneficial    employment,    a    pre-eminence 


THE   BETROTHED 


319 


which,  considering  his  superior  mind  and  talents,  he  would, 
perhaps,  equally  have  attained  had  he  been  the  lowest  in  rank 
and  fortune.  The  advantages  of  a  different  nature,  which  the 
circumstances  of  fortune  could  have  procured  for  him,  he  not 
only  not  sought  after,  but  studiously  neglected.  He  kept  a 
table  rather  meagre  than  frugal,  and  wore  a  dress  rather  mean 
than  decent;  while  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life  and  behaviour 
was  in  conformity  with  these  particulars.  Nor  did  he  think 
it  necessary  to  alter  it  because  some  of  his  relatives  exclaimed 
loudly  against  such  a  practice,  and  complained  that  by  this 
means  he  would  degrade  the  dignity  of  the  house.  He  had 
also  another  warfare  to  maintain  against  his  instructors,  who 
stealthily,  and  as  it  were  by  surprise,  endeavoured  to  place 
before,  behind,  and  around  him,  more  noble  appendages,  some- 
thing which  might  distinguish  him  from  others,  and  make 
him  appear  the  first  in  the  place:  either  thinking,  by  this 
means,  to  ingratiate  themselves  with  him  in  the  long  run;  or 
influenced  by  that  servile  attachment  which  prides  itself  in, 
and  rejoices  at,  the  splendour  of  others;  or  being  among  the 
number  of  those  prudent  persons  who  shrink  back  with  alarm 
from  the  extreme  of  virtue  as  well  as  vice,  are  for  ever  pro- 
claiming that  perfection  lies  in  a  medium  between  the  two, 
and  fix  that  medium  exactly  at  the  point  which  they  have 
reached,  and  where  they  find  themselves  very  much  at  their 
ease.  Federigo  not  only  refused  these  kindly  ofhces,  but  re- 
buked the  oihcious  instruments:  and  that  between  the  ages  of 
childhood  and  youth. 

That,  during  the  life  of  the  Cardinal  Carlo,  his  senior  by 
twenty-six  years,  in  his  authoritative  and,  so  to  say,  solemn 
presence,  surrounded  by  homage  and  respectful  silence,  in- 
cited by  the  fame,  and  impressed  with  the  tokens  of  sanctity, 
Federigo,  as  a  boy  and  a  youth,  should  have  endeavoured  to 
conform  himself  to  the  behaviour  and  talents  of  such  a  cousin, 
is  certainly  not  to  be  wondered  at;  but  it  is,  indeed,  much  to 
be  able  to  say,  that,  after  his  death,  no  one  could  perceive 
that  Federigo,  then  twenty  years  of  age,  had  lost  a  guide  and 
censor.  The  increasing  fame  of  his  talents,  erudition,  and 
piety;  the  relationship  and  connection  of  more  than  one  pow- 
erful Cardinal;  the  credit  of  his  family;  his  very  name,  to 
which  Carlo  had  almost  annexed  in  people's  minds  an  idea  of 
sanctity  and  sacerdotal  pre-eminence;  all  that  should,  and  all 
that  could,  lead  men  to  ecclesiastical  dignities,  concurred  to 
predict  them  for  him.  But  he,  persuaded  in  heart  of  what 
no  one  who  professes  Christianity  can  deny  with  the  lips,  that 
there  is  no  real  superiority  of  a  man  over  his  fellow  men,  ex- 


320 


MANZONI 


cepting  In  so  far  as  he  devotes  himself  to  their  service,  both 
dreaded  exaltation,  and  sought  to  avoid  it;  not,  indeed,  that  he 
might  shrink  from  serving  others — for  few  lives  have  been 
more  devoted  to  this  object  than  his  own — but  because  he 
considered  himself  neither  worthy  enough  of  so  high  and  peril- 
ous a  service,  nor  sufficiently  competent  for  it.  For  these  rea- 
sons, when  the  Archbishopric  of  Milan  was  offered  to  him  in 
1595  by  Clement  VIII  he  seemed  much  disturbed,  and  refused 
the  charge  without  hesitation.  He  yielded  afterward,  how- 
ever, to  the  express  command  of  the  Pope. 

Such  demonstrations  (who  knows  It  not?)  are  neither  dif- 
ficult nor  uncommon;  and  it  requires  no  greater  effort  of 
subtlety  for  hypocrisy  to  make  them,  than  for  raillery  to  de- 
ride them,  and  hold  them  cheap  on  every  occasion.  But  do 
they,  therefore,  cease  to  be  the  natural  expression  of  a  wise 
and  virtuous  principle?  One's  life  Is  the  tombstone  of  pro- 
fession; and  the  profession  of  this  sentiment,  though  it  may 
have  been  on  the  tongue  of  all  the  impostors  and  all  the 
scoffers  in  the  world,  will  ever  be  worthy  of  admiration,  when 
preceded  and  followed  by  a  life  of  disinterested  self-sacrifice. 

In  Federigo,  as  Archbishop,  was  apparent  a  remarkable 
and  constant  carefulness  to  devote  to  himself  no  more  of  his 
wealth,  his  time,  his  care — in  short,  of  his  whole  self,  than 
was  absolutely  necessary.  He  said,  as  everybody  says,  that 
ecclesiastical  revenues  are  the  patrimony  of  the  poor;  how 
he  showed  he  understood  such  a  maxim  in  reality  wall  be 
evident  from  this  fact.  He  caused  an  estimate  to  be  taken 
of  the  sum  required  for  his  own  expenditure,  and  that  of  those 
In  his  personal  service;  and  being  told  that  six  hundred  scudi 
would  be  sufficient  (scudo  was  at  that  time  the  name  of  a 
golden  coin  which,  retaining  the  same  weight  and  value,  was 
afterward  called  a  zecchino),  he  gave  orders  that  this  sum 
should  annually  be  set  apart  out  of  his  patrimonial  estate,  for 
the  expenses  of  the  table.  So  sparing  and  scrupulous  was  he 
In  his  personal  outlay,  that  he  was  careful  never  to  leave  off  a 
dress  which  was  not  completely  worn  out;  uniting,  however, 
as  was  recorded  by  contemporary  writers,  to  this  habit  of 
simplicity,  that  of  singular  neatness;  two  remarkable  quali- 
ties. In  fact.  In  this  age  of  ostentation  and  uncleanliness.  That 
nothing,  again,  might  be  wasted  of  the  remnants  of  his  frugal 
table,  he  assigned  them  to  a  hospital  for  the  poor;  one  of 
whom  came  daily,  by  his  orders,  to  the  dining  apartment,  to 
gather  up  all  that  remained.  Such  Instances  of  economy 
might,  perhaps,  suggest  the  idea  of  a  close,  parsimonious, 
over-careful  virtue,  of  a  mind  wrapt  up  in  attention  to  minutiae, 


THE    BETROTHED  321 

and  incapable  of  elevated  designs,  were  it  not  for  the  Am- 
brosian  Library,  still  standing,  which  Federigo  projected  with 
such  noble  magnificence,  and  executed,  from  the  foundations 
upward,  with  such  munificent  liberality;  to  supply  which 
with  books  and  manuscripts,  besides  the  presentation  of  those 
he  had  already  collected  with  great  labour  and  expense,  he 
sent  eight  of  the  most  learned  and  experienced  men  he  could 
find,  to  make  purchases  throughout  Italy,  France,  Spain,  Ger- 
many, Flanders,  Greece,  Lebanon,  and  Jerusalem.  By  this 
means,  he  succeeded  in  gathering  together  about  thirty  thou- 
sand printed  volumes  and  fourteen  thousand  manuscripts. 
To  this  library  he  united  a  college  of  doctors  (nine  in  number 
at  first,  and  maintained  at  his  charge  while  he  lived;  after- 
ward, the  ordinary  income  not  sufficing  for  this  expense,  they 
were  reduced  to  two).  Their  office  was  to  cultivate  various 
branches  of  study,  theology,  history,  polite  literature,  and  the 
Oriental  languages,  each  one  being  obliged  to  publish  some 
work  on  the  subject  assigned  to  him.  To  this  he  also  added  a 
college,  which  he  called  Trilingue,  for  the  study  of  the  Greek, 
Latin,  and  Italian  languages;  a  college  of  pupils,  for  instruc- 
tion in  these  several  faculties  and  languages,  that  they  might 
become  professors  in  their  turn;  a  printing-office  for  the 
Oriental  languages,  for  Hebrew,  that  is  to  say,  Chaldaic, 
Arabic,  Persian,  and  Armenian;  a  gallery  of  paintings,  an- 
other of  statues,  and  a  school  for  the  three  principal  arts  of  de- 
sign. For  these  last  he  could  find  professors  already  existing; 
but  as  to  the  rest,  we  have  seen  the  trouble  it  cost  him  to  collect 
books  and  manuscripts.  Undoubtedly,  it  would  be  more  dif- 
ficult to  meet  with  types  in  those  languages,  then  much  less 
cultivated  in  Europe  than  they  are  at  present;  and  still  more 
difficult  than  types,  would  be  men  who  understood  them. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that,  out  of  nine  professors,  eight  were  taken 
from  among  the  young  pupils  of  the  seminary;  from  which 
circumstance  we  may  infer  what  was  his  opinion  of  the  schools 
then  established,  and  the  celebrity  gained  in  those  days;  an 
opinion  agreeing  with  that  which  posterity  seems  to  have 
formed  of  them,  by  suffering  both  one  and  the  other  to  sink 
into  oblivion.  In  the  regulations  which  he  left  for  the  use 
and  government  of  the  library,  a  provision  for  perpetual  utility 
is  conspicuous,  not  only  admirable  in  itself,  but,  in  many 
particulars,  judicious  and  elegant,  far  beyond  the  general 
ideas  and  habits  of  the  age.  He  required  the  librarian  to 
keep  up  a  correspondence  with  the  most  learned  men  in 
Europe,  that  he  might  have  information  of  the  state  of  sci- 
ence, and  intelligence  of  the  best  works  on  any  subject  that 
21 


222  MANZONI 

should  be  published,  and  immediately  purchase  them.  He 
gave  him  in  charge  to  point  out  to  the  students  those  works 
which  might  assist  them  in  their  designs ;  and  ordered  that  the 
advantages  of  consulting  the  works  there  preserved  should  be 
open  to  all,  whether  citizens  or  strangers.  Such  a  regulation 
will  now  appear  quite  natural — one  and  the  same  thing  Vv^ith 
the  founding  of  a  library;  but  in  those  days  it  was  not  so. 
In  a  history  of  the  Ambrosian  Library,  written  (with  the  pre- 
cision and  elegance  usual  in  that  age)  by  one  Pier-paolo  Bosca, 
a  librarian,  after  the  death  of  Federigo,  it  is  expressly  noted 
as  a  remarkable  fact,  that,  in  this  library,  built  by  a  private 
individual  almost  entirely  at  his  own  expense,  the  books  were 
accessible  to  the  view  of  all,  and  brought  to  any  one  wdio 
should  demftn^  them,  with  liberty  to  sit  down  and  study  them, 
and  the  provision  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  to  take  notes ;  while, 
in  some  other  celebrated  public  libraries  in  Italy,  the  volumes 
were  not  only  not  visible,  but  concealed  in  closets,  where  they 
were  never  disturbed,  except  when  the  humanity,  as  he  says,  of 
the  presidents  prompted  them  sometimes  to  display  them  for  a 
moment.  As  to  accommodation  and  conveniences  for  study 
provided  for  those  who  frequented  it,  they  had  not  the  least 
idea  of  such  a  thing.  So  that  to  furnish  such  libraries  was 
to  withdraw  books  from  the  use  of  the  public;  one  of  those 
means  of  cultivation,  many  of  which  were,  and  still  are,  em- 
ployed, that  only  serve  to  render  the  soil  more  sterile. 

It  were  useless  to  inquire  what  were  the  effects  of  this 
foundation  of  Borromeo  on  public  education:  it  would  be 
easy  enough  to  demonstrate  in  two  words,  according  to  the 
general  method  of  demonstration,  that  they  were  miraculous, 
or  that  they  were  nothing;  but  to  investigate  and  explain, 
up  to  a  certain  point,  what  they  really  were,  would  be  a  work 
of  much  difficulty,  little  advantage,  and  somewhat  ill-timed. 
Rather  let  us  think  what  a  generous,  judicious,  benevolent, 
persevering  lover  of  the  improvement  of  mankind  he  must 
have  been,  who  planned  such  an  undertaking — who  planned 
it  on  so  grand  a  scale,  and  wdio  executed  it  in  the  midst  of 
ignorance,  inertness,  and  general  contempt  of  all  studious  ap- 
plication, and,  consequently,  in  spite  of  "  What  docs  it  mat- 
ter f  "  and  "  There's  something  else  to  think  about ;  "  and,  "  What 
a  fine  invention!  "  and,  "  This  was  certainly  wanting;  "  and  simi- 
lar remarks,  which,  undoubtedly,  will  have  been  more  in  num- 
ber that  the  scudi  expended  by  him  in  the  undertaking, 
amounting  to  a  hundred  and  five  thousand,  the  greatest  part 
of  his  property. 

To  style  such  a  man  beneficent  and  liberal  in  a  high  de- 


THE  BETROTHED  323 

gree,  it  would  be  unnecessary,  perhaps,  that  he  should  have 
spent  much  in  the  immediate  relief  of  the  needy;  and  there 
are,  besides,  many  in  whose  opinion  expenditure  of  the  charac- 
ter we  have  described,  and,  indeed,  I  may  say  all  expenditure, 
is  the  best  and  more  beneficial  almsgiving.  But  in  Federigo's 
opinion,  almsgiving,  properly  speaking,  was  a  paramount 
duty;  and  here,  as  in  everything  else,  his  actions  were  in 
accordance  with  his  principles.  His  life  was  one  continual 
overflowing  charity.  On  occasion  of  this  very  scarcity,  to 
which  our  story  has  already  alluded,  we  shall  have  presently 
to  relate  several  traits  which  will  exhibit  the  judgment  and 
delicacy  he  knew  how  to  employ  even  in  his  liberality.  Of 
the  many  remarkable  examples  which  his  biographers  have 
recorded  of  this  virtue,  we  will  here  cite  but  one.  Having 
heard  that  a  certain  nobleman  was  using  artifices  and  com- 
pulsion to  force  into  a  convent  one  of  his  daughters  who 
wished  rather  to  be  married,  he  had  an  interview  with  her 
father;  and  drawing  from  him  the  acknowledgment  that  the 
true  motive  of  this  oppression  was  the  want  of  four  thou- 
sand scudi,  which,  according  to  his  idea,  were  necessary  toward 
ward  marrying  his  daughter  suitably,  Federigo  immediately 
presented  the  required  dowry.  Some  may  perhaps  think  this 
an  extravagant  act  of  bounty,  not  well-judged,  and  too  conde- 
scending to  the  foolish  caprices  of  a  vain  nobleman;  and  that 
four  thousand  scudi  might  have  been  better  employed  in  this 
or  that  manner.  To  which  we  have  nothing  to  answer,  ex- 
cepting that  it  were  devoutly  to  be  w^ished  that  one  could  more 
frequently  see  excesses  of  a  virtue  so  unfettered  by  prevailing 
opinion  (every  age  has  its  own),  and  so  free  from  the  general 
tendency,  as  in  this  instance  that  must  have  been,  which  in- 
duced a  man  to  give  four  thousand  scudi,  that  a  young  person 
might  not  be  made  a  nun. 

The  inexhaustible  charity  of  this  man  appeared  not  only 
in  his  almsgiving  but  in  his  whole  behaviour.  Easy  of  access 
to  all,  he  considered  a  cheerful  countenance  and  an  affection- 
ate courtesy  particularly  due  to  those  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life ; 
and  the  more  so  in  proportion  as  they  were  little  thought  of 
by  the  world.  Here,  therefore,  he  had  to  combat  with  the 
gentlemen  of  the  ne  quid  nimis  school,  who  were  anxious  to 
keep  him  within  limits,  i.  e.  within  their  limits.  One  of  these, 
on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to  a  wild  and  mountainous  country, 
when  Federigo  was  teaching  some  poor  children,  and  during 
the  interrogations  and  instruction  was  fondly  caressing  them, 
besought  him  to  be  more  cautious  in  handling  such  children, 
as  they  were  dirty  and  repelling:  as  if  the  worthy  gentleman 


324 


MANZONI 


supposed  that  Federlgo  had  not  discernment  enough  to  make 
the  discovery,  or  acumen  enough  to  suggest  this  recondite 
counsel  for  himself.  Such,  in  certain  circumstances  of  times 
and  things,  is  the  misfortune  of  men  exalted  to  high  stations, 
that  while  they  seldom  find  any  one  to  inform  them  of  their 
failings,  there  is  no  lack  of  persons  courageous  enough  to  re- 
prove them  for  doing  right.  But  the  good  Bishop,  not  with- 
out anger,  replied:  "They  are  my  lambs,  and  perhaps  may 
never  again  see  my  face;  and  would  you  not  have  me  caress 
them?" 

Very  seldom,  however,  did  he  exhibit  any  anger,  being 
admired  for  his  mild  and  imperturable  gentleness  of  behav- 
iour, which  might  be  attributed  to  an  extraordinarily  happy 
temperament  of  mind;  while,  in  truth,  it  was  the  effect  of  con- 
stant discipline  over  a  naturally  hasty  and  passionate  disposi- 
tion. If  ever  he  showed  himself  severe,  nay,  even  harsh,  it  was 
toward  those  pastors  under  his  authority  whom  he  discov- 
ered guilty  of  avarice,  or  negligence,  or  any  other  conduct 
opposed  to  the  spirit  of  their  high  vocation.  Upon  what 
might  affect  his  own  interest  or  temporal  glory,  he  never 
betokened  either  joy,  regret,  eagerness,  or  anxiety:  wonder- 
ful indeed  if  these  emotions  were  not  excited  in  his  mind; 
more  wonderful  if  they  were.  Not  only  in  the  many  con- 
claves at  which  he  had  assisted,  did  he  acquire  the  reputation 
of  having  never  aspired  to  that  lofty  post  so  desirable  to  ambi- 
tion, and  so  terrible  to  piety;  but  on  one  occasion,  when  a  col- 
league, who  possessed  considerable  influence,  came  to  offer 
him  his  vote  and  those  of  his  (so,  alas!  it  was  termed)  faction, 
Federigo  refused  the  proposal  in  such  a  manner  that  his  friend 
immediately  abandoned  the  idea,  and  turned  his  views  else- 
where. This  same  humility,  this  dread  of  pre-eminence,  was 
equally  apparent  in  the  more  common  occurrences  of  life. 
Careful  and  indefatigable  in  ordering  and  governing  every- 
thing, where  he  considered  it  his  duty  to  do  so,  he  always 
shrank  from  intruding  into  the  affairs  of  others,  and  even 
when  solicited,  refused,  if  possible,  to  interfere — discretion  and 
temperance  far  from  common,  as  everybody  knows,  in  men  as 
zealous  in  the  cause  of  good  as  Federigo  was. 

Were  we  to  allow  ourselves  to  prosecute  the  pleasing  task 
of  collecting  together  the  remarkable  points  in  his  character, 
the  result  would  certainly  be  a  complication  of  virtues  in 
apparent  opposition  to  each  other,  and  assuredly  difficult  to 
find  combined.  We  can  not,  however,  omit  to  notice  one 
more  excellency  in  his  excellent  life:  replete  as  it  was  with 
action,  government,  functions,  instruction,  audiences,  diocesan 


THE    BETROTHED 


325 


visitations,  journeys,  and  controversies,  he  not  only  found 
time  for  study,  but  devoted  as  much  to  this  object  as  a  pro- 
fessor of  hterature  would  have  required.  Indeed,  among  many 
other  and  various  titles  of  commendation,  he  possessed  in  a 
high  degree,  among  his  contemporaries,  that  of  a  man  of 
learning. 

We  must  not,  however,  conceal  that  he  held  with  firm 
persuasion,  and  maintained,  in  fact,  with  persevering  con- 
stancy, some  opinions  which,  in  the  present  day,  would  ap- 
pear to  every  one  rather  singular  than  ill-founded;  even  to 
such  as  would  be  anxious  to  consider  them  sound.  For  any 
one  who  would  defend  him  on  this  head,  there  is  the  current 
and  commonly-received  excuse,  that  they  were  the  errors  of 
the  age,  rather  than  his  own;  an  excuse,  to  say  the  truth, 
which,  when  it  results  from  the  minute  consideration  of  facts, 
may  be  valid  and  significant;  but  which  generally,  applied  in 
the  usual  naked  way,  and  as  we  must  do  in  this  instance,  comes 
in  the  end  to  mean  exactly  nothing  at  all.  And,  besides,  not 
wishing  to  resolve  complicated  questions  with  simple  formulae, 
we  will  venture  to  leave  this  unsolved;  resting  satisfied  with 
having  thus  cursorily  mentioned,  that  in  a  character  so  ad- 
mirable as  a  whole,  we  do  not  pretend  to  affirm  that  every 
particular  was  equally  so,  lest  we  should  seem  to  have  intended 
making  a  funeral  oration. 

We  shall  not  be  doing  injustice  to  our  readers  to  suppose 
that  some  of  them  may  inquire  whether  this  person  has  left 
any  monument  of  so  much  talent  and  erudition.  Whether 
he  has  left  any!  The  works  remaining  from  him,  great  and 
small,  Latin  and  Italian,  published  and  manuscript,  amount 
to  about  a  hundred  volumes,  preserved  in  the  library  he  him- 
self founded:  moral  treatises,  discourses,  dissertations  on  his- 
tory, sacred  and  profane,  antiquities,  literature,  arts,  and  vari- 
ous other  subjects. 

And  however  does  it  happen — this  inquirer  may  ask — that 
so  many  works  are  forgotten,  or  at  least  so  little  known,  so 
little  sought  after?  How  is  it,  that  with  such  talents,  such 
learning,  such  experience  of  men  and  things,  such  profound 
thought,  such  a  sense  of  the  good  and  the  beautiful,  such 
purity  of  mind,  and  so  many  other  qualities  which  consti- 
tute the  elegant  author;  how  is  it,  that  out  of  a  hundred 
works,  he  has  not  left  even  one  to  be  considered  excellent  by 
those  who  approve  not  of  the  whole,  and  to  be  known  by  title 
even  by  those  who  have  never  read  it?  How  is  it  that  all  of 
them  together  have  not  sufficed,  at  least  by  their  number,  to 
procure  for  his  name  a  literary  fame  among  posterity? 


326 


MANZONI 


The  inquiry  is  undoubtedly  reasonable,  and  the  question 
sufficiently  interesting:  because  the  reasons  of  this  phenome- 
non are  to  be  found,  or,  at  least,  must  be  sought  for,  in  many 
general  facts;  and  when  found,  would  lead  to  the  explanation 
of  other  similar  phenomena.  But  they  would  be  many  and 
prolix:  and  what  if  they  should  not  prove  satisfactory?  if 
they  should  make  the  reader  turn  away  in  disgust?  So  that 
it  will  be  better  to  resume  our  ''  walk  through  "  the  story,  and 
instead  of  digressing  more  at  length  on  the  character  of  this 
wonderful  man,  proceed  to  observe  him  in  action  under  the 
conduct  of  our  anonymous  author. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

CARDINAL  FEDERIGO  was  employed,  according 
to  his  usual  custom  in  every  leisure  interval,  in  study, 
until  the  hour  arrived  for  repairing  to  the  church  for 
the  celebration  of  Divine  Service,  when  the  chaplain 
and  cross-bearer  entered  with  a  disturbed  and  gloomy  coun- 
tenance. 

*' A  strange  visitor,  my  noble  Lord — strange  indeed!" 

"Who?"  asked  the  Cardinal. 

"  No  less  a  personage  than  the  Signor  .  .  ."  replied  the 
chaplain;  and  pronouncing  the  syllables  with  a  very  signifi- 
cant tone,  he  uttered  the  name  which  we  can  not  give  to  our 
readers.  He  then  added:  *'  He  is  here  outside  in  person;  and 
demands  nothing  less  than  to  be  introduced  to  your  illustrious 
Grace." 

"  He !  "  said  the  Cardinal,  with  an  animated  look,  shut- 
ting his  book,  and  rising  from  his  seat;  *'  let  him  come  in! — 
let  him  come  in  directly!  " 

"  But  .  .  .  ."  rejoined  the  chaplain,  without  attempting 
to  move,  "  your  illustrious  Lordship  must  surely  be  aware 
who  he  is:   that  outlaw,  that  famous  .  .  .  ." 

''  And  is  it  not  a  most  happy  circumstance  for  a  bishop, 
that  such  a  man  should  feel  a  wish  to  come  and  seek  an  in- 
terview with  him?" 

"  But  .  .  .  ."  insisted  the  chaplain,  "  we  may  never  speak 
of  certain  things,  because  my  Lord  says  that  it  is  all  non- 
sense: but,  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  think  it  is  a  duty 
.  .  .  .  Zeal  makes  many  enemies,  my  Lord;  and  we  know 
positively  that  more  than  one  rufBan  has  dared  to  boast  that 
some  day  or  other  .  .  .  ." 

"And  what  have  they  done?"  interrupted  the  Cardinal. 

"  I  say  that  this  man  is  a  plotter  of  mischief,  a  desperate 
character,  who  holds  correspondence  with  the  most  violent 
desperadoes,  and  vvho  may  be  sent  .  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  what  discipline  is  this,"  again  interrupted  Federigo, 
smiling,  "  for  the  soldiers  to  exhort  their  general  to  coward- 

327 


328  MANZONI 

ice?"  Then  resuming  a  grave  and  thoughtful  air,  he  con- 
tinued: *' Saint  Carlo  would  not  have  deliberated  whether  he 
ought  to  receive  such  a  man:  he  would  have  gone  to  seek 
him.  Let  him  be  admitted  directly:  he  has  already  waited 
too  long." 

The  chaplain  moved  toward  the  door,  saying  in  his  heart: 
— There's  no  remedy:  these  saints  are  all  obstinate. 

Having  opened  the  door,  and  surveyed  the  room  where 
the  Signor  and  his  companions  were,  he  saw  that  the  latter 
had  crowded  together  on  one  side,  where  they  sat  whisper- 
ing and  cautiously  peeping  at  their  visitor,  while  he  was  left 
alone  in  one  corner.  The  chaplain  advanced  tow^ard  him, 
eyeing  him  guardedly  from  head  to  foot,  and  w^ondering  what 
weapons  he  might  have  hidden  under  that  great  coat;  think- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  that  really,  before  admitting  him,  he 
ought  at  least  to  have  proposed  ....  but  he  could  not  re- 
solve what  to  do.  He  approached  him,  saying:  "  His  Grace 
waits  for  your  Lordship.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  come 
with  me?"  And  as  he  preceded  him  through  the  little  crowd, 
which  instantly  gave  way  for  him,  he  kept  casting  glances  on 
each  side,  which  meant  to  say:  What  could  I  do?  don't  you 
know  yourselves  that  he  always  has  his  own  way? 

On  reaching  the  apartment,  the  chaplain  opened  the  door, 
and  introduced  the  Unnamed.  Federigo  advanced  to  meet 
him  with  a  happy  and  serene  look,  and  his  hand  extended,  as 
if  to  welcome  an  expected  guest,  at  the  same  time  making  a 
sign  to  the  chaplain  to  go  out,  which  was  immediately  obeyed. 

When  thus  left  alone,  they  both  stood  for  a  moment  silent 
and  in  suspense,  though  from  widely  different  feelings.  The 
Unnamed,  who  had,  as  it  were,  been  forcibly  carried  there 
by  an  inexplicable  compulsion,  rather  than  led  by  a  determi- 
nate intention,  now  stood  there,  also  as  it  were  by  compul- 
sion, torn  by  two  contending  feelings:  on  the  one  side,  a 
desire  and  confused  hope  of  meeting  with  some  alleviation 
of  his  inward  torment;  on  the  other,  a  feeling  of  self-rebuked 
shame  at  having  come  thither,  like  a  penitent,  subdued,  and 
wretched,  to  confess  himself  guilty,  and  to  make  supplication 
to  a  man:  he  was  at  a  loss  for  words,  and,  indeed,  scarcely 
sought  for  them.  Raising  his  eyes,  however,  to  the  Arch- 
bishop's face,  he  became  gradually  filled  with  a  feeling  of 
veneration,  authoritative,  and  at  the  same  time  soothing; 
>vhich,  while  it  increased  his  confidence,  gently  subdued  his 
haughtiness,  and,  without  oflfending  his  pride,  compelled  it 
to  give  way,  and  imposed  silence. 

The  bearing  of  Federigo  was,  in  fact,  one  which  announced 


THE    BETROTHED.  329 

superiority,  and,  at  the  same  time,  excited  love.  It  was  natu- 
rally sedate,  and  almost  involuntarily  commanding,  his  figure 
being  not  in  the  least  bowed  or  wasted  by  age;  while  his 
solemn,  yet  sparkling  eye,  his  open  and  thoughtful  forehead, 
a  kind  of  virginal  floridness,  which  might  be  distinguished 
even  among  grey  locks,  paleness,  and  the  traces  of  abstinence, 
meditation,  and  labour:  in  short,  all  his  features  indicated 
that  they  had  once  possessed  that  which  is  most  strictly  en- 
titled beauty.  The  habit  of  serious  and  benevolent  thought, 
the  inward  peace  of  a  long  life,  the  love  that  he  felt  toward 
his  fellow-creatures,  and  the  uninterrupted  enjoyment  of  an 
inefifable  hope,  had  now  substituted  the  beauty  (so  to  say) 
of  old  age,  which  shone  forth  more  attractively  from  the 
magnificent  simplicity  of  the  purple. 

He  fixed,  for  a  moment,  on  the  countenance  of  the  Un- 
named, a  penetrating  look,  long  accustomed  to  gather  from 
this  index  what  was  passing  in  the  mind;  and  imagining  he 
discovered,  under  that  dark  and  troubled  mien,  something 
every  moment  more  corresponding  with  the  hope  he  had 
conceived  on  the  first  announcement  of  such  a  visit,  *'  Oh!  " 
cried  he,  in  an  animated  voice,  **  what  a  welcome  visit  is  this! 
and  how  thankful  I  ought  to  be  to  you  for  taking  such  a 
step,  although  it  may  convey  to  me  a  little  reproof!" 

"Reproof!"  exclaimed  the  Signor,  much  surprised,  but 
soothed  by  his  words  and  manner,  and  glad  that  the  Cardinal 
had  broken  the  ice,  and  started  some  sort  of  conversation. 

"  Certainly,  it  conveys  to  me  a  reproof,"  replied  the  Arch- 
bishop, ''  for  allowing  you  to  be  beforehand  with  me  when 
so  often,  and  for  so  long  a  time,  I  might  and  ought  to  have 
come  to  you  myself." 

"  You  come  to  me!  Do  you  know  who  I  am?  Did  they 
deliver  in  my  name  rightly?  " 

"  And  the  happiness  I  feel,  and  which  must  surely  be 
evident  in  my  countenance,  do  you  think  I  should  feel  it 
at  the  announcement  and  visit  of  a  stranger?  It  is  you  who 
make  me  experience  it;  you,  I  say,  whom  I  ought  to  have 
sought;  you  whom  I  have,  at  least,  loved  and  wept  over, 
and  for  whom  I  have  so  often  prayed;  you,  among  all  my 
children,  for  each  one  I  love  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
whom  I  should  most  have  desired  to  receive  and  embrace,  if  I 
had  thought  I  might  hope  for  such  a  thing.  But  God  alone 
knows  how  to  work  wonders,  and  supplies  the  weakness  and 
tardiness  of  His  unworthy  servants." 

The  Unnamed  stood  astonished  at  this  warm  reception, 
in  language  which  corresponded  so  exactly  with  that  which 


330 


MANZONI 


he  had  not  yet  expressed,  nor,  indeed,  had  fully  determined 
to  express;  and,  affected,  but  exceedingly  surprised,  he  re- 
mained silent.  "Well!"  resumed  Federigo,  still  more  affec- 
tionately, "you  have  good  news  to  tell  me;  and  you  keep 
me  so  long  expecting  it?" 

"Good  news!  I  have  hell  in  my  heart;  and  can  I  tell 
you  any  good  tidings?  Tell  me,  if  you  know,  what  good 
news  you  can  expect  from  such  as  I  am?  " 

"  That  God  has  touched  your  heart,  and  would  make  you 
His  own,"  replied  the  Cardinal,  calmly. 

"  God!  God!  God!  If  I  could  see  Him!  If  I  could  hear 
Him!    Where  is  this  God?" 

"  Do  you  ask  this?  you?  And  who  has  Him  nearer  than 
you?  Do  you  not  feel  Him  in  your  heart,  overcoming,  agitat- 
ing you,  never  leaving  you  at  ease,  and  at  the  same  time 
drawing  you  forward,  presenting  to  your  view  a  hope  of  tran- 
quillity and  consolation,  a  consolation  which  shall  be  full 
and  boundless,  as  soon  as  you  recognize  Him,  acknowledge, 
and  implore  Him?" 

*'  Oh,  surely!  there  is  something  within  that  oppresses, 
that  consumes  me!  But  God!  If  this  be  God,  if  He  be  such 
as  they  say,  what  do  you  suppose  He  can  do  with  me? " 

These  words  were  uttered  with  an  accent  of  despair,  but 
Federigo,  with  a  solemn  tone,  as  of  calm  inspiration,  re- 
plied: '*  What  can  God  do  with  you?  What  would  He  wish 
to  make  of  you?  A  token  of  His  power  and  goodness:  He 
would  acquire  through  you  a  glory,  such  as  others  could 
not  give  Him.  The  w^orld  has  long  cried  out  against  you, 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  voices  have  declared  their  de- 
testation of  your  deeds  .  .  .  ."  (The  Unnamed  shuddered, 
and  felt  for  a  moment  surprised  at  hearing  such  unusual  lan- 
guage addressed  to  him,  and  still  more  surprised  that  he  felt 
no  anger,  but  rather,  almost  a  relief.)  ''  What  glory,"  pur- 
sued Federigo,  "will  thus  redound  to  God!  They  may  be 
voices  of  alarm,  of  self-interest;  of  justice,  perhaps — a  jus- 
tice so  easy!  so  natural!  Some  perhaps,  yea,  too  many,  may 
be  voices  of  envy  of  your  wretched  power;  of  your  hitherto 
deplorable  security  of  heart.  But  when  you,  yourself,  rise  up 
to  condemn  your  past  life,  to  become  your  own  accuser, 
then!  then,  indeed,  God  will  be  glorified!  And  you  ask  what 
God  can  do  with  you.  Who  am  I,  a  poor  mortal,  that  I 
can  tell  you  wdiat  use  such  a  Being  may  choose  henceforth 
to  make  of  you?  how  He  can  employ  your  impetuous  will, 
your  unwavering  perseverance,  when  He  shall  have  animated 
and  invigorated  them  with  love,  with  hope,  with  repentance? 


THE    BETROTHED 


331 


Who  are  you,  weak  man,  that  you  should  imagine  yourself 
capable  of  devising  and  executing  greater  deeds  of  evil,  than 
God  can  make  you  will  and  accomplish  in  the  cause  of  good? 
What  can  God  do  with  you?  Pardon  you!  save  you!  finish 
in  you  the  work  of  redemption!  Are  not  these  things  noble 
and  worthy  of  Him?  Oh,  just  think!  if  I,  an  humble  and 
feeble  creature,  so  worthless  and  full  of  myself — I,  such  as  I 
am,  long  so  ardently  for  your  salvation,  that,  for  its  sake, 
I  would  joyfully  give  (and  He  is  my  witness!)  the  few  days 
that  still  remain  to  me;  oh,  think  what,  and  how  great,  must 
be  the  love  of  Him,  Who  inspires  me  with  this  imperfect 
but  ardent  affection;  how  must  He  love  you,  what  must 
He  desire  for  you,  Who  has  bid  and  enabled  me  to  regard 
you  with  a  charity  that  consumes  me !  " 

While  these  words  fell  from  his  lips,  his  face,  his  expres- 
sion, his  whole  manner,  evinced  his  deep  feeling  of  what  he 
uttered.  The  countenance  of  his  auditor  changed,  from  a 
wild  and  convulsive  look,  first  to  astonishment  and  attention, 
and  then  gradually  yielded  to  deeper  and  less  painful  emo- 
tions; his  eyes,  which  from  infancy  had  been  unaccustomed 
to  weep,  became  suffused;  and  when  the  words  ceased,  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears.    It  was  the  only  and  most  evident  reply. 

**  Great  and  good  God!"  exclaimed  Federigo,  raising  his 
hands  and  eyes  to  heaven,  "  what  have  I  ever  done,  an  un- 
profitable servant,  an  idle  shepherd,  that  Thou  shouldest  call 
me  to  this  banquet  of  grace!  that  Thou  shouldest  make  me 
worthy  of  being  an  instrument  in  so  joyful  a  miracle!"  So 
saying,  he  extended  his  hand  to  take  that  of  the  Unnamed. 

"No!"  cried  the  penitent  nobleman;  "no!  keep  away 
from  me:  defile  not  that  innocent  and  beneficent  hand.  You 
don't  know  all  that  the  one  you  would  grasp  has  committed." 

"  Suffer  me,"  said  Federigo,  taking  it  with  affectionate 
violence,  "  suffer  me  to  press  the  hand  which  will  repair  so 
many  wrongs,  dispense  so  many  benefits,  comfort  so  many 
afflicted,  and  be  extended,  disarmed,  peacefully,  and  humbly, 
to  so  many  enemies." 

"It  is  too  much!"  said  the  Unnamed,  sobbing,  "leave 
me,  my  Lord;  good  Federigo,  leave  me!  A  crowded  as- 
sembly awaits  you;  so  many  good  people,  so  many  inno- 
cent creatures,  so  many  come  from  a  distance,  to  see  you  for 
once,  to  hear  you:  and  you  are  staying  to  talk  ....  with 
whom !  " 

"  We  will  leave  the  ninety  and  nine  sheep,"  replied  the 
Cardinal;    "they  are  in  safety,  upon  the  mountain:    I  wish 


332 


MANZONI 


to  remain  with  that  which  was  lost.  Their  minds  are,  per- 
haps, now  more  satisfied  than  if  they  were  seeing  their  poor 
bishop.  Perhaps  God,  Who  has  wrought  in  you  this  miracle 
of  mercy,  is  diffusing  in  their  hearts  a  joy  of  which  they  know 
not  yet  the  reason.  These  people  are,  perhaps,  united  to  us 
without  being  aware  of  it:  perchance  the  Spirit  may  be  in- 
stilling into  their  hearts  an  undefined  feeling  of  charity,  a 
petition  which  He  will  grant  for  you,  an  offering  of  gratitude 
of  which  you  are,  as  yet,  the  unknown  object."  So  saying, 
he  threw  his  arms  round  the  neck  of  the  Unnamed,  who,  after 
attempting  to  disengage  himself,  and  making  a  momentary 
resistance,  yielded,  completely  overcome  by  this  vehement 
expression  of  affection,  embraced  the  Cardinal  in  his  turn, 
and  buried  in  his  shoulder  his  trembling  and  altered  face. 
His  burning  tears  dropped  upon  the  stainless  purple  of  Fede- 
rigo,  while  the  guiltless  hands  of  the  holy  bishop  affectionate- 
ly pressed  those  members,  and  touched  that  garment  which 
had  been  accustomed  to  hold  the  w^eapons  of  violence  and 
treachery. 

Disengaging  himself,  at  length,  from  this  embrace,  the 
Unnamed  again  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  raising 
his  face  to  heaven,  exclaimed:  ''  God  is,  indeed,  great!  God 
is,  indeed,  good!  I  know  myself  now,  now  I  understand  what 
I  am;  my  sins  are  present  before  me,  and  I  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  myself;  yet!  ....  yet  I  feel  an  alleviation,  a 
joy;  yes,  even  a  joy,  such  as  I  have  never  before  known  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  my  horrible  life !  " 

''  It  is  a  little  taste,"  said  Federigo,  "  which  God  gives 
you,  to  incline  you  to  His  service,  and  encourage  you  reso- 
lutely to  enter  upon  the  new  course  of  life  which  lies  before 
you,  and  in  which  you  will  have  so  much  to  undo,  so  much 
to  repair,  so  much  to  mourn  over!  " 

"  Unhappy  man  that  I  am!  "  exclaimed  the  Signor;  "  how 
many,  oh,  how  many  ....  things  for  which  I  can  do  noth- 
ing besides  mourn!  But,  at  least,  I  have  undertakings  scarce- 
ly set  on  foot  which  I  can  break  off  in  the  midst,  if  nothing 
more:  one  there  is  which  I  can  quickly  arrest,  which  I  can 
easily  undo,  and  repair." 

Federiofo  listened  attentivelv,  while  the  Unnamed  brieflv 
related,  in  terms  of,  perhaps,  deeper  execration  than  we  have 
employed,  his  attempt  upon  Lucia,  the  sufferings  and  terrors 
of  the  unhappy  girl,  her  importunate  entreaties,  the  frenzy 
that  these  entreaties  had  aroused  within  him,  and  how  she  was 
still  in  the  castle  .... 

"  Ah,  then !    let  us  lose  no  time ! "  exclaimed  Federigo, 


THE   BETROTHED  333 

breathless  with  eagerness  and  compassion.  "  You  are  in- 
deed blessed!  This  is  an  earnest  of  God's  forgiveness!  He 
makes  you  capable  of  becoming  the  instrument  of  safety  to 
one  whom  you  intended  to  ruin.  God  bless  you!  Nay,  He 
has  blessed  you!  Do  you  know  where  our  unhappy  pro- 
tegee comes  from?  " 

The  Signor  named  Lucia's  village. 

"  It's  not  far  from  this,"  said  the  Cardinal,  ''  God  be 
praised;  and  probably  .  .  .  .  "  So  saying,  he  went  toward 
a  little  table,  and  rang  a  bell.  The  cross-bearing  chaplain  im- 
mediately attended  the  summons  with  a  look  of  anxiety,  and 
instantly  glanced  toward  the  Unnamed.  At  the  sight  of  his 
altered  countenance,  and  his  eyes  still  red  with  weeping,  he 
turned  an  inquiring  gaze  upon  the  Cardinal;  and  perceiv- 
ing, amid  the  invariable  composure  of  the  countenance,  a 
look  of  solemn  pleasure  and  unusual  solicitude,  he  would 
have  stood  with  open  mouth,  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  had  not  the 
Cardinal  quickly  aroused  him  from  his  contemplations,  by 
asking  whether,  among  the  parish-priests  who  were  assem- 
bled in  the  next  room,  there  were  one  from  *  *  *. 

"  There  is,  your  illustrious  Grace,"  replied  the  chaplain. 

"  Let  him  come  in  directly,"  said  Federigo,  "  and  with 
him  the  priest  of  this  parish." 

The  chaplain  quitted  the  room,  and  on  entering  the  hall 
where  the  clergy  were  assembled,  all  eyes  were  immediately 
turned  upon  him;  while,  with  a  look  of  blank  astonishment, 
and  a  countenance  in  which  was  still  depicted  the  rapture  he 
had  felt,  he  lifted  up  his  hands,  and  waving  them  in  the  air, 
exclaimed,  "  Signori!  Signori!  hsec  mutatio  dexterse  Excelsi." 
And  he  stood  for  a  moment  without  uttering  another  word. 
Then  assuming  the  tone  and  language  of  a  message,  he  added, 
*'  His  most  noble  and  very  reverend  Lordship  desires  to  speak 
with  the  Signor  Curate  of  this  parish,  and  the  Signor  Curate 

The  first  party  summoned  immediately  came  forward; 
and,  at  the  same  time,  there  issued  from  the  midst  of  the 
crowd  an  "I?"  drawled  forth  with  an  intonation  of  sur- 
prise. 

"Are  you  not  the  Signor  Curate  of  *  *  *?"  replied  the 
chaplain. 

"I  am;    but  .  .  .  ." 

"  His  most  noble  and  very  reverend  Lordship  asks  for 
you." 

"Me?"  again  replied  the  same  voice,  clearly  expressing 
in  this  monosyllable,  "What  can  they  want  with  me?"     But 


234  MANZONI 

this  time,  together  with  the  voice,  came  forth  the  Hving  being, 
Don  Abbonclio  himself,  with  an  unwilHng  step,  and  a  coun- 
tenance between  astonishment  and  disgust.  The  chaplain 
beckoned  to  him  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  meant  to  say,  "  Come, 
let  us  go;  is  it  so  very  alarming?  "  and  escorting  them  to  the 
door,  he  opened  it,  and  introduced  them  into  the  apartment. 

The  Cardinal  relinquished  the  hand  of  the  Unnamed, 
with  whom,  meanwhile,  he  had  been  concerting  arrangements, 
and  withdrawing  a  little  aside,  beckoned  to  the  curate  of  the 
village.  Briefly  relating  the  circumstances,  he  asked  whether 
he  could  immediately  find  a  trustworthy  woman  who  would 
be  willing  to  go  to  the  castle  in  a  litter,  and  fetch  away  Lucia ; 
a  kind  and  clever  person,  who  would  know  how  to  conduct 
herself  in  so  novel  an  expedition,  and  whose  manners  and  lan- 
guage would  be  most  likely  to  encourage  and  tranquillize 
the  unfortunate  girl,  to  whom,  after  so  much  anguish  and 
alarm,  even  liberation  itself  might  be  an  additional  cause  of 
apprehension.  After  a  moment's  thought,  the  curate  said  that 
he  knew  just  the  very  person,  and  then  took  his  departure. 
The  Cardinal  now  calling  to  him  the  chaplain,  desired  him  to 
have  a  litter  and  bearers  immediately  prepared,  and  to  see 
that  two  mules  were  saddled,  for  riders;  and  as  soon  as  he  had 
quitted  the  apartment,  turned  to  Don  Abbondio. 

This  worthy  gentleman,  who  had  kept  tolerably  close  to 
the  Archbishop,  that  he  might  be  at  a  respectful  distance 
from  the  other  Signor,  and  had,  in  the  mean  time,  been  cast- 
ing side  glances,  first  to  one,  and  then  to  the  other,  dubitat- 
ing  the  while  within  himself  whatever  all  this  strange  ma- 
noeuvring might  mean,  now  advanced  a  step  forward,  and, 
making  a  respectful  bow,  said:  "  I  was  told  that  your  most 
illustrious  Lordship  wanted  me;  but  I  think  there  must  be 
some  misunderstanding." 

^*  There  is  no  misunderstanding,  I  assure  you,"  replied 
Federigo;  ''  I  have  glad  news  to  give  you,  and  a  pleasant  and 
most  agreeable  task  to  impose  upon  you.  One  of  your  parish- 
ioners, whom  you  must  have  lamented  as  lost,  Lucia  Mon- 
della,  is  again  found,  and  is  near  at  hand,  in  the  house  of  my 
good  friend  here;  and  you  will  go  now  with  him,  and  a 
woman,  whom  the  Signor  Curate  of  this  place  has  gone  to 
seek;  you  will  go,  I  say,  to  fetch  thence  one  of  your  own 
children,  and  accompany  her  hither." 

Don  Abbondio  did  his  best  to  conceal  the  vexation — the 
what  shall  I  say? — the  alarm,  the  dismay  excited  by  this 
proposal,  or  command;  and  unable  any  longer  to  restrain  or 
dismiss  a  look  of  inexpressible  discontent  already  gathering 


THE   BETROTHED 


335 


in  his  countenance,  he  could  only  hide  it  by  a  profound  rever- 
ence, in  token  of  obedient  acceptance;  nor  did  he  again  raise 
his  face,  but  to  make  another  equally  profound  obeisance  to 
the  Unnamed,  with  a  piteous  look,  which  seemed  to  say:  "  I 
am  in  your  hands,  have  pity  upon  me;  Parcere  subjectis." 

The  Cardinal  then  asked  him  what  relatives  Lucia  had. 

"  Of  near  relatives,  with  whom  she  lives,  or  might  live, 
she  has  only  a  mother,"  replied  Don  Abbondio. 

"  Is  she  at  home?" 

"  Yes,  my  Lord." 

"  Well,"  replied  Federigo,  "  since  this  poor  girl  can  not 
be  so  directly  restored  to  her  own  home,  it  will  be  a  great 
consolation  to  her  to  see  her  mother  as  quickly  as  possible; 
so,  if  the  Signor  Curate  of  this  village  doesn't  return  before 
I  go  to  church,  I  request  you  will  tell  him  to  find  a  cart,  or 
some  kind  of  conveyance,  and  despatch  a  person  of  discre- 
tion to  fetch  her  mother  here." 

"  Had  not  /  better  go?  "  said  Don  Abbondio. 

"  No,  no,  not  you;  I've  already  requested  you  to  under- 
take another  commission,"  replied  the  Cardinal. 

"  I  proposed  it,"  rejoined  Don  Abbondio,  "  to  prepare 
her  poor  mother  for  the  news.  She  is  a  very  sensitive  woman, 
and  it  requires  one  who  knows  her  disposition,  and  how  to 
go  to  work  with  her  the  right  way,  or  he  will  do  her  more 
harm  than  good." 

"  And  therefore  I  have  requested  you  to  acquaint  the 
Signor  Curate  of  my  wish  that  a  proper  person  should  be 
chosen  for  this  office:  you  will  do  better  elsewhere,"  replied 
the  Cardinal.  And  he  would  willingly  have  added:  *' That 
poor  girl  at  the  castle  has  far  more  need  of  shortly  seeing  a 
known  and  trusted  countenance,  after  so  many  hours  of  agony, 
and  in  such  terrible  ignorance  as  to  the  future."  But  this  was 
not  a  reason  to  be  so  clearly  expressed  before  the  present  third 
party.  Indeed,  the  Cardinal  thought  it  very  strange  that  it 
had  not  immediately  occurred  to  Don  Abbondio;  that  he  had 
not  thought  of  it  himself;  and  the  profifer  he  had  made,  and  so 
warmly  insisted  upon,  seemed  so  much  out  of  place,  that  he 
could  not  help  suspecting  there  must  be  something  hidden 
beneath.  He  gazed  upon  his  face,  and  there  readily  detected 
his  fear  of  journeying  with  that  terrible  person,  and  of  being 
his  guest  even  for  a  few  moments.  Anxious,  therefore,  en- 
tirely to  dissipate  these  cowardly  apprehensions,  yet  unwill- 
ing to  draw  the  curate  aside  and  whisper  with  him  in  secret, 
while  his  new  friend  formed  the  third  of  their  party,  he  judged 
that  the  best  plan  would  be  to  do  what,  indeed,  he  would  have 


33^ 


MANZONI 


done  without  such  a  motive,  that  is,  address  the  Unnamed 
himself;  and  thus  Don  Abbondio  might  at  length  understand, 
from  his  replies,  that  he  was  no  longer  an  object  of  fear.  He 
returned,  therefore,  to  the  Unnamed,  and  addressing  him  with 
that  frank  cordiality  which  may  be  met  with  in  a  new  and 
powerful  afifection,  as  well  as  in  an  intimacy  of  long  stand- 
ing, *'  Don't  think,"  said  he,  '*  that  I  shall  be  content  with 
this  visit  for  to-day.  You  will  return,  won't  you,  with  this 
worthy  clergyman?  " 

"Will  I  return?"  replied  the  Unnamed.  "Should  you 
refuse  me,  I  would  obstinately  remain  outside  your  door, 
like  the  beggar.  I  want  to  talk  with  you;  I  want  to  hear 
you,  to  see  you;  I  deeply  need  you!  " 

Federigo  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it,  saying:  "  Do  the 
clergyman  of  this  village,  then,  and  me,  the  favour  of  dining 
with  us  to-day.  I  shall  expect  you.  In  the  mean  while,  I 
must  go  to  offer  up  prayers  and  praises  with  the  people;  and 
you  to  reap  the  first-fruits  of  mercy." 

Don  Abbondio,  at  these  demonstrations,  stood  like  a 
cowardly  child,  who  watches  a  person  boldly  petting  and 
stroking  a  large,  surly,  shaggy  dog,  with  glaring  eyes,  and 
a  notoriously  bad  name  for  biting  and  growling,  and  hears 
its  master  say  that  his  dog  is  a  good  and  very  quiet  beast: 
he  looks  at  the  owner,  and  neither  contradicts  nor  assents; 
he  looks  at  the  animal,  afraid  to  approach  him  for  fear  the 
"  very  gentle  beast "  should  show  his  teeth,  were  it  only  from 
habit;  and  equally  afraid  to  run  away,  lest  he  should  be 
thought  a  coward ;  and  can  only  utter  an  internal  aspiration : — 
Would  that  I  were  safe  in  my  own  house ! 

On  quitting  the  apartment,  in  company  with  the  Unnamed, 
whose  hand  he  still  grasped,  the  Cardinal  cast  another  glance 
upon  the  poor  man  who  remained  behind,  looking  very  awk- 
ward and  mortified,  and  with  a  doleful  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. Thinking  that  possibly  his  vexation  arose  from  being 
apparently  overlooked,  and  left,  as  it  were,  in  a  corner,  par- 
ticularly in  contrast  with  the  notoriously  wicked  character 
now  so' warmly  received  and  welcomed,  he  turned  toward  him 
in  passing,  and  hung  back  for  a  moment,  and  said  to  him, 
with  a  friendly  smile :  "  Signor  Curate,  thou  w^ert  ever  with 
me  in  the  house  of  our  kind  Father,  but  this  ....  this  one 
perierat,  et  inventus  est." 

"Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  it!"  said  Don  Abbondio, 
making  a  profound  reverence  to  the  two  together. 

The  Archbishop  then  went  on,  gave  a  slight  push  to  the 
door,  which  was  immediately  opened  from  without  by  two 


THE    BETROTHED  33;r 

servants  who  stood  outside,  and  the  notable  pair  stood  be- 
fore the  longing  eyes  of  the  clergy  assembled  in  the  apart- 
ment. They  gazed  with  interest  upon  their  two  countenances, 
both  of  which  bore  the  traces  of  a  very  different  but  equally 
profound  emotion:  a  grateful  venderness,  an  humble  joy,  on 
Federigo's  venerable  features;  ^-.nd  on  those  of  the  Unnamed, 
confusion,  tempered  with  consolation,  a  new  and  unusual  mod- 
esty, and  a  feeling  of  contrition,  through  which  the  vigour  of 
his  wild  and  fiery  temper  was,  nevertheless,  still  apparent.  It 
was  afterward  found  that  the  passage  in  the  prophet  Isaiah 
had  occurred  to  more  than  one  of  the  spectators:  7'he  wolf 
and  the  lamb  shall  feed  together,  and  the  lion  shall  eat  strazv  like 
the  bullock.  (Isa.  Ixv.  25.)  Behind  them  came  Don  Abbondio, 
to  whom  no  one  paid  any  attention. 

When  they  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  Car- 
dinal's groom  of  the  chamber  entered  on  the  opposite  side, 
and  informed  his  master  that  he  had  executed  all  the  orders 
communicated  to  him  by  the  chaplain;  that  the  litter  and 
mules  were  in  readiness,  and  they  only  waited  the  arrival  of 
the  female  whom  the  curate  was  to  bring.  The  Cardinal  bid 
him  tell  the  priest,  when  he  came  back,  that  Don  Abbondio 
wished  to  speak  with  him;  and  then  all  the  rest  was  left 
under  the  direction  of  the  latter  and  the  Unnamed,  whom  the 
Cardinal  again  shook  warmly  by  the  hand  on  taking  leave, 
saying,  ''  I  shall  expect  you."  Then,  turning  to  salute  Don 
Abbondio  with  a  bow,  he  set  off  in  the  direction  of  the  church, 
followed  by  the  clergy,  half  grouped  and  half  in  procession, 
while  the  fellow-travellers  remained  alone  in  the  apartment. 

The  Unnamed  stood  wrapt  up  in  his  own  thoughts,  and 
impatient  for  the  moment  when  he  might  go  to  liberate  his 
Lucia  from  her  sufferings  and  confinement — his,  now,  in  a 
very  different  sense  from  that  in  which  she  was  so  the  day 
before:  and  his  face  expressed  a  feeling  of  intense  agitation, 
which,  to  Don  Abbondio's  suspicious  eye,  might  easily  appear 
something  worse.  He  peeped  and  glanced  at  him  from  the 
corner  of  his  eye,  and  longed  to  start  some  friendly  conversa- 
tion:— But  what  can  I  say  to  him? — thought  he: — must  I  say 
again,  I  am  glad?  Glad  of  what?  that  having  hitherto  been 
a  devil,  he  has  at  last  resolved  to  become  a  gentleman,  like 
others!  A  fine  compliment,  indeed!  Eh,  eh,  eh!  however 
I  may  turn  the  words,  /  am  glad  can  mean  nothing  else.  And, 
after  all,  will  it  be  true  that  he  has  become  a  gentleman?  so 
on  a  sudden!  There  are  so  many  displays  made  in  the  world, 
and  from  so  many  motives!  What  do  I  know  about  it?  And, 
in  the  mean  time,  I  have  to  go  with  him:  and  to  that  castle! 
22 


338 


MANz'.ONI 


oh,  what  a  tale!  what  a  tale!  what  a  tale  is  this  to  tell!  who 
would  have  told  me  this,  this  morning!  Ah,  if  I  can  but 
escape  in  safety,  my  lady  Perpetua  sha'n't  soon  hear  the  end  of 
it  from  me,  for  having  sent  me  here  by  force,  when  there  was 
no  necessity  for  it,  out  of  my  cwn  parish :  with  her  fine  plausi- 
ble reasons,  that  all  the  priests,  for  many  a  mile  round,  would 
flock  hither,  even  those  who  were  further  oflf  than  I;  and 
that  I  mustn't  be  behindhand;  and  this,  that,  and  the  other; 
and  then  to  embark  me  in  a  business  of  this  sort!  Oh,  poor 
me!  But  I  must  say  something  to  this  man. — ^And  he  had 
just  thought  of  that  something,  and  was  on  the  point  of  open- 
ing his  mouth  to  say:  "  I  never  anticipated  the  pleasure  of  be- 
ing thrown  into  such  honourable  company,"  when  the  groom 
of  the  chamber  entered,  with  the  curate  of  the  parish,  who 
announced  that  the  woman  was  waiting  in  the  litter;  and  then 
turned  to  Don  Abbondio,  to  receive  from  him  the  further 
commission  of  the  Cardinal.  Don  Abbondio  delivered  him- 
self as  well  as  he  could  in  the  confusion  of  miind  under  which 
he  was  labouring;  and  then,  drawing  up  to  the  groom,  said 
to  him:  "  Pray  give  me,  at  least,  a  quiet  beast;  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  am  but  a  poor  horseman." 

''  You  may  imagine,"  replied  the  groom,  with  a  half-smile; 
''  it  is  the  secretary's  mule,  who  is  a  very  learned  man." 

"  That  will  do  .  .  .  ."  replied  Don  Abbondio,  and  he  con- 
tinued to  ruminate: — Heaven  send  me  a  good  one. 

The  Signor  had  readily  set  off  the  moment  he  heard  the 
announcement;  but  on  reaching  the  door,  and  perceiving 
that  Don  Abbondio  was  remaining  behind,  he  stood  still  to 
wait  for  him.  When  he  came  up,  hastily,  with  an  apologizing 
look,  the  Signor  bowed  and  made  him  pass  on  first,  with  a 
courteous  and  humble  air,  which  somewhat  reanimated  the 
spirits  of  the  unfortunate  and  tormented  man.  But  scarcely 
had  he  set  foot  in  the  court-yard,  when  he  saw  a  new  object 
of  alarm,  which  quickly  dissipated  all  his  reviving  confidence: 
he  beheld  the  Unnamed  go  toward  the  corner,  take  hold  of 
the  barrel  of  his  carbine  with  one  hand,  and  of  the  strap  with 
the  other,  and  with  a  rapid  motion,  as  if  performing  the  mili- 
tary exercise,  swing  it  over  his  shoulder. 

Alas!  alas!  woe  is  me! — thought  Don  Abbondio: — what 
would  he  do  with  that  weapon?  Suitable  sackcloth,  truly! 
fine  discipline  for  a  new  convert!  And  supposing  some  fancy 
should  take  him?  Oh,  what  an  expedition!  what  an  expedi- 
tion ! 

Could  this  Signor  have  suspected  for  a  moment  what  kind 
of  thoughts  they  were  which  were  passing  through  his  com- 


THE   BETROTHED 


339 


panion's  mind,  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  he  would  not  have 
done  to  reassure  him;  but  he  was  far  enough  away  from  such 
a  suspicion,  and  Don  Abbondio  carefully  avoided  any  move- 
ment which  would  distinctly  express — I  don't  trust  your  Lord- 
ship.— On  reaching  the  door  into  the  street,  they  found  the 
two  animals  in  readiness:  the  Unnamed  mounted  one,  which 
was  held  for  him  by  an  hostler. 

"Isn't  it  vicious?"  said  Don  Abbondio  to  the  valet,  as 
he  stood  with  one  foot  suspended  on  the  stirrup,  and  the 
other  still  resting  on  the  ground. 

"You  may  go  with  a  perfectly  easy  mind;  it's  a  very 
lamb,"  replied  the  man;  and  Don  Abbondio,  grasping  the 
saddle,  and  assisted  by  the  groom,  gradually  mounted  up- 
ward, and,  at  last,  found  himself  safely  seated  on  the  creature's 
back. 

The  litter,  which  stood  a  few  paces  in  advance,  and  was 
borne  by  two  mules,  moved  forward  at  the  word  of  the  at- 
tendant, and  the  whole  party  set  off. 

They  had  to  pass  before  the  church,  which  was  full  to 
overflowing  with  people;  and  through  a  little  square,  also 
swarming  with  the  villagers,  and  newly  arrived  visitors,  whom 
the  building  could  not  accommodate.  The  glad  news  had 
already  spread;  and  on  the  appearance  of  the  party,  and 
more  especially  of  him  who,  only  a  few  hours  before,  had 
been  an  object  of  terror  and  execration,  but  was  now  the 
object  of  joyful  wonder,  there  arose  from  the  crowd  al- 
most a  murmur  of  applause;  and  as  they  made  way  for  him 
even  their  eagerness  was  hushed  in  the  desire  to  obtain  a 
near  view  of  him.  The  litter  passed  on,  the  Unnamed  fol- 
lowed; and  when  he  arrived  before  the  open  door  of  the 
church,  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed  his  hitherto  dreaded  fore- 
head, till  it  almost  touched  the  animal's  mane,  amid  the 
murmur  of  a  hundred  voices,  exclaiming,  "  God  bless  you!  '* 
Don  Abbondio,  also,  took  off  his  hat,  and  bending  low,  recom- 
mended himself  to  Heaven ;  but  hearing  the  solemn  harmony 
of  his  brethren,  as  they  chanted  in  chorus,  he  w^as  so  over- 
come with  a  feeling  of  envy,  a  mournful  tenderness  of  spirit, 
and  a  sudden  fervour  of  heart,  that  it  w^as  with  difficulty  he 
restrained  his  tears. 

When  they  got  beyond  the  habitations  into  the  open 
country,  and  in  the  often  entirely  deserted  windings  of  the 
road,  a  still  darker  cloud  overspread  his  thoughts.  The  only 
object  on  which  his  eye  could  rest  with  any  confidence,  was 
the  attendant  on  the  litter,  who,  belonging  to  the  Cardinal's 
household,  must  certainly  be  an  honest  man;    and  who,  be- 


340 


MANZONI 


sides,  did  not  look  like  a  coward.  From  time  to  time  passen- 
gers appeared,  sometimes  even  in  groups,  who  were  flocking 
to  see  the  Cardinal,  and  this  was  a  great  relief  to  Don  Ab- 
bondio;  it  was,  however,  but  transitory,  and  he  was  advanc- 
ing toward  that  tremendous  valley,  where  he  should  meet 
none  but  the  vassals  of  his  companion;  and  what  vassals! 
He  now  more  than  ever  longed  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  this  companion,  both  to  sound  him  a  little  more,  and 
to  keep  him  in  good  humour;  but  even  this  wish  vanished 
on  seeing  him  so  completely  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts. 
He  must  then  talk  to  himself;  and  we  will  present  the  reader 
with  a  part  of  the  poor  man's  soliloquy  during  his  journey, 
for  it  would  require  a  volume  to  record  the  whole: 

It  was  a  fine  thing,  truly,  that  saints  as  well  as  sinners 
must  have  quicksilver  in  their  compositions,  and  can  not  be 
content  with  fussing  about  and  busying  themselves,  but  must 
also  bring  into  the  dance  with  them  the  whole  world,  if  they 
can;  and  that  the  greatest  busybodies  must  just  come  upon 
me,  who  never  meddle  with  anybody,  and  drag  me  by  the 
hair  into  their  affairs;  me,  who  ask  for  nothing  but  to  be  left 
alone!  That  mad  rascal  of  a  Don  Rodrigo!  What  does  he 
want  to  make  him  the  happiest  man  in  the  world,  if  he  had 
but  the  least  grain  of  judgment?  He  is  rich,  he  is  young,  he 
is  respected  and  courted :  he  is  sick  with  too  much  prosperity, 
and  must  needs  go  about  making  trouble  for  himself  and  his 
neighbour.  He  might  follow  the  ways  of  Saint  Michael;  oh, 
no!  my  gentleman  doesn't  choose:  he  chooses  to  set  up 
the  trade  of  molesting  women,  the  most  absurd,  the  most 
vile,  the  most  insane  business  in  the  world:  he  might  ride 
to  heaven  in  his  carriage,  and  chooses  rather  to  walk  halting 
to  the  devil's  dwelling.  And  this  man?  ....  And  here  he 
looked  at  him,  as  if  he  suspected  he  could  hear  his  very 
thoughts. — This  man!  after  turning  the  world  upside  down 
with  his  wickedness,  now  he  turns  it  upside  down  with  his 
conversion  ....  if  it  prove  really  so.  In  the  mean  while, 
it  falls  to  me  to  make  the  trial!  ....  So  it  is,  that  when 
people  are  born  with  this  madness  in  their  veins,  they  must 
always  be  making  a  noise!  Is  it  so  difficult  to  act  an  honest 
part  all  one's  life,  as  I  have  done?  Oh  no,  my  good  sir:  they 
must  kill  and  quarter,  play  the  devil  ....  oh,  poor  me !  .  .  .  . 
and  then  comes  a  great  stir  even  when  doing  penance.  Re- 
pentance, when  there  is  an  inclination  to  it,  can  be  performed 
at  home,  quietly,  without  so  much  show,  without  giving  so 
much  trouble  to  one's  neighbours.  And  his  illustrious  Lord- 
ship, instantly,  instantly,  with  open  arms,  calling  him  his  dear 


THE   BETROTHED 


341 


friend,  his  dear  friend;  and  this  man  Hstens  to  all  he  says  as 
if  he  had  seen  him  work  miracles;  and  then  he  must  all  at 
once  come  to  a  resolution,  and  rush  into  it  hand  and  foot,  one 
minute  here,  and  the  next  there :  we,  at  home,  should  call  this 
precipitation.  And  to  deliver  a  poor  curate  into  his  hands 
without  the  smallest  security!  this  may  be  called  playing  with 
a  man  at  great  odds.  A  holy  bishop,  as  he  is,  ought  to  value 
his  curates  as  the  apple  of  his  eye.  It  seems  to  me  there  might 
be  a  little  moderation,  a  little  prudence,  a  little  charity  along 
with  sanctity  ....  Supposing  this  should  be  all  a  mere 
show?  Who  can  tell  all  the  intentions  of  men?  and  particu- 
larly of  such  a  man  as  this?  To  think  that  it  is  my  lot  to  go 
with  him,  to  his  own  house!  There  may  be  some  underwork 
of  the  devil  here:  oh,  poor  me!  it  is  best  not  to  think  about 
it.  How  is  Lucia  mixed  up  with  all  this?  It  is  plain  Don 
Rodrigo  had  some  designs  upon  her:  what  people!  and  sup- 
pose it  is  exactly  thus,  how  then  has  this  man  got  her  into 
his  clutches?  Who  knows,  I  wonder?  It  is  all  a  secret  with 
my  Lord;  and  to  me,  whom  they  are  making  trot  about  in 
this  way,  they  don't  tell  a  word.  I  don't  care  about  knowing 
other  people's  affairs;  but  when  I  have  to  risk  my  skin  in  the 
matter,  I  have  a  right  to  know  something.  If  it  be  only  to  go 
and  fetch  away  this  poor  creature,  patience!  though  he  could 
easily  enough  bring  her  straight  away  himself.  And  besides, 
if  he  is  really  converted,  if  he  has  become  a  holy  father,  what 
need  is  there  of  me?  Oh,  what  a  chaos!  Well;  it  is  Heaven's 
will  it  should  be  thus:  it  will  be  a  very  great  inconvenience, 
but  patience!  I  shall  be  glad,  too,  for  this  poor  Lucia:  she 
also  must  have  escaped  some  terrible  issue:  Heaven  knows 
what  she  must  have  suffered:  I  pity  her;  but  she  was  born  to 
be  my  ruin  ....  At  least,  I  wish  I  could  look  into  his  heart, 
and  see  what  he  is  thinking  about.  Who  can  understand 
him?  Just  look,  now;  one  minute  he  looks  like  Saint  Antony 
in  the  desert,  the  next  he  is  like  Holofernes  himself.  Oh, 
poor  me!  poor  me!  Well;  Heaven  is  under  an  obligation 
to  help  me,  since  I  didn't  get  myself  into  this  danger  with  my 
own  good  will. 

In  fact,  the  thoughts  of  the  Unnamed  might  be  seen,  so 
to  say,  passing  over  his  countenance,  as  in  a  stormy  day  the 
clouds  flit  across  the  face  of  the  sun,  producing  every  now 
and  then  an  alternation  of  dazzling  light  and  gloomy  shade. 
His  soul,  still  quite  absorbed  in  reflection  upon  Federigo's 
soothing  words,  and,  as  it  were,  renewed  and  made  young 
again  with  fresh  life,  now  rose  with  cheerful  hope  at  the  idea 
of  mercy,  pardon,  and  love;  and  then  again  sank  beneath  the 


342 


MANZONI 


weight  of  the  terrible  past.  He  anxiously  tried  to  select  those 
deeds  of  iniquity  which  were  yet  reparable,  and  those  which 
he  could  still  arrest  in  the  midst  of  their  progress;  he  con- 
sidered what  remedies  would  be  most  certain  and  expeditious, 
how  to  disentangle  so  many  knots,  what  to  do  with  so  many 
accomplices;  but  it  was  all  obscurity  and  difficulty.  In  this 
very  expedition,  the  easiest  of  execution,  and  so  near  its  termi- 
nation, he  went  with  a  willingness  mingled  with  grief  at  the 
thought,  that  in  the  mean  while  the  poor  girl  was  suffering, 
God  knew  how  much,  and  that  he,  while  burning  to  liberate 
her,  was  all  the  while  the  cause  of  her  sufifering.  At  every 
turn  or  fork  in  the  road  the  mule-driver  looked  back  for 
direction  as  to  the  way:  the  Unnamed  signified  it  with  his 
hand,  and  at  the  same  time  beckoned  to  him  to  make  haste. 

They  entered  the  valley.  How  must  Don  Abbondio  have 
felt  then!  That  renowned  valley,  of  which  he  had  heard  such 
black  and  horrible  stories,  to  be  actually  within  it!  Those 
men  of  notorious  fame,  the  flower  of  the  bravoes  of  Italy,  men 
without  fear  and  without  mercy — to  see  them  in  flesh  and 
blood — to  meet  one,  two,  or  three,  at  every  turn  of  a  corner! 
They  bowed  submissively  to  the  Signor;  but  their  sun-burnt 
visages!  their  rough  mustachios!  their  large  fierce  eyes! 
they  seemed  to  Don  Abbondio's  mind  to  mean — Shall  we 
dispatch  that  priest? — So  that,  in  a  moment  of  extreme  con- 
sternation, the  thought  rushed  into  his  mind — Would  that  I 
had  married  them!  worse  could  not  befall  me. — In  the  mean 
while  they  went  forward  along  a  gravelly  path  by  the  side  of 
the  torrent:  on  one  hand  was  a  view  of  isolated  and  solid 
rocks;  on  the  other,  a  population  which  would  have  made 
even  a  desert  seem  desirable :  Dante  was  not  in  a  worse  situ- 
ation in  the  midst  of  Malebolge. 

They  passed  the  front  of  Malanotte;  where  bravoes  were 
lounging  at  the  door,  who  bowed  to  the  Signor,  and  gazed 
at  his  companion  and  the  litter.  They  knew  not  what_  to 
think;  the  departure  of  the  Unnamed  in  the  morning  by  him- 
self had  already  seemed  extraordinary,  and  his  return  was 
not  less  so.  Was  it  a  captive  that  he  was  conducting?  And 
how  had  he  accomplished  it  alone?  And  what  was  the  mean- 
ing of  a  strange  litter?  And  whose  could  this  livery  be?  They 
looked  and  looked,  but  no  one  moved,  because  such  was  the 
command  they  read  in  his  eye  and  expression. 

They  climbed  the  ascent,  and  reached  the  summit.  The 
bravoes  on  the  terrace  and  round  the  gate  retired  on  either 
side  to  make  room  for  him;  the  Unnamed  motioned  to  them 
to  retreat  no  farther,  spurted  forward  and  passed  before  the 


THE    BETROTHED 


343 


litter,  beckoned  to  the  driver  and  Don  Abbondio  to  follow 
him,  entered  an  outer  court,  and  thence  into  a  second,  went 
toward  a  small  postern,  made  signs  to  a  bravo,  who  was 
hastening  to  hold  his  stirrup,  to  keep  back,  and  said  to  him, 
"  You  there,  and  no  one  nearer."  He  then  dismounted,  and 
holding  the  bridle,  advanced  toward  the  litter,  addressed  him- 
self to  the  female  who  had  just  drawn  back  the  curtain,  and 
said  to  her  in  an  under-tone:  "  Comfort  her  directly;  let  her 
understand  at  once  that  she  is  at  liberty,  and  among  friends. 
God  will  reward  you  for  it."  He  then  ordered  the  driver  to 
open  the  door,  and  assist  her  to  get  out.  Advancing,  then, 
to  Don  Abbondio,  with  a  look  of  greater  serenity  than  the 
poor  man  had  yet  seen,  or  thought  it  possible  he  could  see, 
on  his  countenance,  in  which  there  might  now  be  traced  joy 
at  the  good  work  which  \vas  at  length  so  near  its  completion, 
he  lent  him  his  arm  to  dismount,  saying  to  him  at  the  same 
time,  in  a  low  voice:  '*  Signor  Curate,  I  do  not  apologize  for 
the  trouble  you  have  had  on  my  account;  you  are  bearing 
it  for  One  who  rewards  bountifully,  and  for  this  His  poor 
creature!  " 

This  look,  and  these  words,  once  more  put  some  heart  into 
Don  Abbondio;  and,  drawing  a  long  breath,  which  for  an 
hour  past  had  been  striving  ineffectually  to  find  vent,  he 
replied,  whether  or  not  in  a  submissive  tone  it  need  not  be 
asked:  ''Is  your  Lordship  joking  with  me?  But,  but,  but, 
but!  .  .  .  ."  And,  accepting  the  hand  which  was  so  courte- 
ously offered,  he  slid  down  from  the  saddle  as  he  best  could. 
The  Unnamed  took  the  bridle,  and  handed  it  with  his  own 
to  the  driver,  bidding  him  wait  there  outside  for  them.  Tak- 
ing a  key  from  his  pocket,  he  opened  the  postern,  admitted 
the  curate  and  the  woman,  followed  them  in,  advanced  to  lead 
the  way,  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  all  three  ascended 
in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

LUCIA  had  aroused  herself  only  a  short  time  before;  and 
part  of  that  time  she  had  been  striving  to  awaken  her- 
^  self  thoroughly,  and  to  sever  the  disturbed  dreams  of 
sleep  from  the  remembrances  and  images  of  a  reality 
which  too  much  resembled  the  feverish  visions  of  sickness. 
The  old  woman  quickly  made  up  to  her,  and,  with  a  con- 
strained voice  of  humility,  said:  "Ah!  have  you  slept?  You 
might  have  slept  in  bed:  I  told  you  so  often  enough  last 
night."  And  receiving  no  reply,  she  continued,  in  a  tone  of 
pettish  entreaty:  "Just  eat  something;  do  be  prudent.  Oh, 
how  wretched  you  look!  You  must  want  something  to  eat. 
And  then  if,  when  he  comes  back,  he's  angry  with  me!  " 

*'  No,  no;  I  want  to  go  away,  I  want  to  go  to  my  mother. 
Your  master  promised  I  should ;  he  said,  '  To-morrow  morn- 
ing.'    Where  is  he?" 

"  He's  gone  out;  but  he  said  he'd  be  back  soon,  and  would 
do  all  you  wished." 

"  Did  he  say  so?  did  he  say  so?  Very  well;  I  wish  to  go 
to  my  mother,  directly,  directly." 

And  behold!  the  noise  of  footsteps  was  heard  in  the  ad- 
joining room;  then  a  tap  at  the  door.  The  old  woman  ran 
to  it,  and  asked,  "  Who's  there?  " 

''  Open  the  door,"  replied  the  well-known  voice,  gently. 

The  old  woman  drew  back  the  bolt,  and,  with  a  slight  push, 
the  Unnamed  half  opened  the  door,  bade  her  come  out,  and 
hastily  ushered  in  Don  Abbondio  and  the  good  woman.  He 
then  nearly  closed  the  door  again,  and  w^aiting  himself  out- 
side, sent  the  aged  matron  to  a  distant  part  of  the  castle,  as 
he  had  before  dismissed  the  other  one,  who  was  keeping  watch 
outside. 

All  this  bustle,  the  moment  of  expectation,  and  the  first 
appearance  of  strange  figures,  made  Lucia's  heart  bound 
with  agitation;  for,  if  her  present  condition  was  intolerable, 
every  change  was  an  additional  cause  of  alarm.  She  looked 
up,  and  beheld  a  priest  and  a  woman;  this  somewhat  reani- 

344 


THE   BETROTHED 


345 


mated  her;  she  looked  more  closely;  is  it  he,  or  not?  At  last 
she  recognized  Don  Abbondio,  and  remained  with  her  eyes 
fixed,  as  if  by  enchantment.  The  female  then  drew  near, 
and  bending  over  her,  looked  at  her  compassionately,  tak- 
ing both  her  hands  as  if  to  caress  and  raise  her  at  the  same 
time,  and  saying:  "  Oh,  my  poor  girl!  come  with  us,  come 
with  us." 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Lucia;  but,  without  listen- 
ing to  the  reply,  she  again  turned  to  Don  Abbondio,  who  was 
standing  two  or  three  yards  distant,  even  his  countenance  ex- 
pressing some  compassion;  she  gazed  at  him  again,  and  ex- 
claimed: "You!  Is  it  you?  The  Signor  Curate?  Where  are 
we?  ...  .  Oh,  poor  me!     I  have  lost  my  senses!" 

''  No,  no,"  replied  Don  Abbondio,  "  it  is  indeed  I :  take 
courage.  Don't  you  see  w^e  are  here  to  take  you  away?  I 
am  really  your  curate,  come  hither  on  purpose  on  horse- 
back .  .  .  ," 

As  if  she  had  suddenly  regained  all  her  strength,  Lucia 
precipitately  sprang  upon  her  feet;  then  again  fixing  her  eyes 
on  those  two  faces,  she  said,  "  It  is  the  Madonna,  then,  that 
has  sent  you." 

"  I  believe  indeed  it  is,"  said  the  good  woman. 

''  But  can  we  go  away?  Can  we  really  go  away?  "  resumed 
Lucia,  lowering  her  voice,  and  assuming  a  timid  and  sus- 
picious look.  ''And  all  these  people?  .  .  .  ."  continued  she, 
with  her  lips  compressed,  and  quivering  with  fear  and  horror. 
"And  that  Lord  ....  that  man!  ....  He  did,  indeed, 
promise  .  .  .  ." 

"  He  is  here  himself  in  person,  come  on  purpose  with  us," 
said  Don  Abbondio;  "  he  is  outside  waiting  for  us.  Let  us 
go  at  once;   we  mustn't  keep  a  man  like  him  waiting." 

At  this  moment,  he  of  whom  they  were  speaking  opened 
the  door,  and  showing  himself  at  the  entrance,  came  forward 
into  the  room.  Lucia,  who  but  just  before  had  wished  for 
him,  nay,  having  no  hope  in  any  one  else  in  the  world,  had 
wished  for  none  but  him,  now,  after  having  seen  and  listened 
to  friendly  faces  and  voices,  could  not  restrain  a  sudden 
shudder;  she  started,  held  her  breath,  and  throwing  herself 
on  the  good  woman's  shoulder,  buried  her  face  in  her  bosom. 
At  the  first  sight  of  that  countenance,  on  which,  the  even- 
ing before,  he  had  been  unable  to  maintain  a  steady  gaze,  now 
rendered  more  pale,  languid,  and  dejected,  by  prolonged  suf- 
fering and  abstinence,  the  Unnamed  had  suddenly  checked 
his  steps;  now,  at  the  sight  of  her  impulse  of  terror,  he  cast 
his  eyes  on  the  ground,  stood  for  a  moment  silent  and  motion- 


34^ 


MANZONI 


less,  and  then  replying  to  what  the  poor  girl  had  not  expressed 
in  words,  ''  It  is  true,"  exclaimed  he;  ''  forgive  me!  " 

*'  He  is  come  to  set  you  free;  he's  no  longer  what  he  was; 
he  has  become  good;  don't  you  hear  him  asking  your  for- 
giveness?" said  the  good  woman,  in  Lucia's  ear. 

"  Could  he  say  more?  Come,  lift  up  your  head;  don't  be 
a  baby;  we  can  go  directly,"  said  Don  Abbondio.  Lucia 
raised  her  face,  looked  at  the  Unnamed,  and  seeing  his  head 
bent  \o\\,  and  his  embarrassed  and  humble  look,  she  was  seized 
wath  a  mingled  feeling  of  comfort,  gratitude,  and  pity,  as  she 
replied:  '*  Oh!  my  lord!  God  reward  you  for  this  deed  of 
mercy!  " 

''  And  you  a  thousandfold,  for  the  good  you  do  me  by 
these  words." 

So  saying,  he  turned  round,  w^ent  toward  the  door,  and 
led  the  w'ay  out  of  the  room.  Lucia,  completely  reassured, 
followed,  leaning  on  the  worthy  female's  arm,  while  Don  Ab- 
bondio brought  up  the  rear.  They  descended  the  staircase, 
and  reached  the  little  door  that  led  into  the  court.  The  Un- 
named opened  it,  w^ent  tov/ard  the  litter,  and,  with  a  certain 
politeness,  almost  mingled  with  timidity  (two  novel  qualities 
in  him),  offered  his  arm  to  Lucia,  to  assist  her  to  get  in;  and 
afterward  to  the  worthy  dame.  He  then  took  the  bridles  of 
the  two  mules  from  the  driver's  hand,  and  gave  his  arm  to 
Don  Abbondio,  who  had  approached  his  gentle  steed. 

"  Oh  what  condescension !  "  said  Don  Abbondio,  as  he 
mounted  much  more  nimbly  than  he  had  done  the  first  time; 
and  as  soon  as  the  Unnamed  was  also  seated,  the  party  re- 
sumed their  way.  The  Signor's  brow  was  raised:  his  coun- 
tenance had  regained  its  customary  expression  of  authority. 
The  rufftans  whom  they  passed  on  their  way  discovered,  in- 
deed, in  his  face  the  marks  of  deep  thought,  and  an  extraor- 
dinary solicitude;  but  they  neither  understood,  nor  could  un- 
derstand, more  about  it.  They  knew  not  yet  anything  of  the 
great  change  which  had  taken  place  in  their  master;  and,  un- 
doubtedly, none  of  them  would  have  divined  it  merely  from 
conjecture. 

The  good  woman  immediately  drew  the  curtains  over  the 
little  windows;  and  then,  affectionately  taking  Lucia's  hands, 
she  aplied  herself  to  comfort  her  with  expressions  of  pity, 
congratulation,  and  tenderness.  Seeing,  then,  that  not  only 
fatigue  from  the  suffering  she  had  undergone,  but  the  per- 
plexity and  obscurity  of  all  that  had  happened,  prevented  the 
poor  girl  from  being  sensible  of  the  joy  of  her  deliverance, 
she  said  all  she  could  think  of  most  likelv  to  recall  her  recol- 


THE    BETROTHED 


347 


lection,  and  to  clear  up,  and  set  to  rights,  so  to  say,  her  poor 
scattered  thoughts.  She  named  the  village  she  came  from, 
and  to  which  they  were  now  going. 

''Yes!"  said  Lucia,  who  knew  how  short  a  distance  it 
was  from  her  ow^n.  "  Ah,  most  holy  Madonna,  I  praise  thee! 
My  mother!  my  mother!  " 

"  We  will  send  to  fetch  her  directly,"  said  the  good  woman, 
not  knowing  that  it  was  already  done. 

"  Yes,  yes,  and  God  will  reward  you  for  it  ...  .  And 
you,  who  are  you?    How  have  you  come  .  .  .  ." 

''  Our  curate  sent  me,"  said  the  good  woman,  ''  because 
God  has  touched  this  Signor's  heart  (blessed  be  His  name!), 
and  he  came  to  our  village  to  speak  to  the  Signor  Cardinal 
Archbishop,  for  he  is  there  in  his  visitation,  that  holy  man 
of  God;  and  he  has  repented  of  his  great  sins,  and  wished  to 
change  his  life;  and  he  told  the  Cardinal  that  he  had  caused 
a  poor  innocent  to  be  seized,  meaning  you,  at  the  instigation 
of  another  person,  who  had  no  fear  of  God;  but  the  curate 
didn't  tell  me  who  it  could  be." 

Lucia  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

*'  You  know  who  it  was,  perhaps,"  continued  the  good 
woman.  "  Well ;  the  Signor  Cardinal  thought  that  as  there 
was  a  young  girl  in  the  question,  there  ought  to  be  a  female 
to  come  back  with  her;  and  he  told  the  curate  to  look  for 
one;  and  the  curate,  in  his  goodness,  came  to  me  .  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  the  Lord  recompense  you  for  your  kindness!  " 

"Well,  just  listen  to  me,  my  poor  child!  And  the  Signor 
Curate  bade  me  encourage  you,  and  try  to  comfort  you  direct- 
ly, and  point  out  to  you  how  the  Lord  has  saved  you  by  a 
miracle  .  .  .  ." 

"Ah  yes,  by  a  miracle  indeed;  through  the  intercession 
of  the  Madonna!  " 

**  Well,  that  you  should  have  a  rjght  spirit,  and  forgive 
him  who  has  done  you  this  wrong,  and  be  thankful  that  God 
has  been  merciful  to  him,  yes,  and  pray  for  him  too;  for, 
besides  that  you  will  be  rewarded  for  it,  you  will  also  find 
your  heart  lightened." 

Lucia  replied  with  a  look  which  expressed  assent  as  clearly 
as  words  could  have  done,  and  with  a  sweetness  which  words 
could  not  have  conveyed. 

"Noble  girl!"  rejoined  the  woman.  "And  your  curate, 
too,  being  at  our  village  (for  there  are  numbers  assembled 
from  all  the  country  round  to  elect  four  public  officers),  the 
Signor  Cardinal  thought  it  better  to  send  him  with  us;  but 
he  has  been  of  little  use:    I  had  before  heard  that  he  was  a 


348  MANZONI 

poor-spirited  creature;  but,  on  this  occasion,  I  couldn't  help 
seeing  that  he  was  as  frightened  as  a  chicken  in  a  bundle  of 
hemp." 

"  And  this  man  .  .  .  ."  asked  Lucia,  *'  this  person  who  has 
become  good  ....  who  is  he?" 

''What!  don't  you  know  him?"  said  the  good  woman, 
mentioning  his  name. 

''Oh,  the  mercy  of  the  Lord!"  exclaimed  Lucia.  How 
often  had  she  heard  that  name  repeated  with  horror  in  more 
than  one  story,  in  which  it  always  appeared  as,  in  other  stories, 
that  of  the  monster  Orcus!  And  at  the  thought  of  having 
once  been  in  his  dreaded  power,  and  being  now  under  his 
merciful  protection — at  the  thought  of  such  fearful  danger, 
and  such  unlooked-for  deliverance;  and  at  the  remembrance 
of  whose  face  it  was  that  had  at  first  appeared  to  her  so 
haughty,  afterward  so  agitated,  and  then  so  humbled,  she 
remained  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  only  occasionally  repeating, 
"  Oh,  what  a  mercy!  " 

"It  is  a  great  mercy,  indeed!"  said  the  good  woman. 
"  It  will  be  a  great  relief  to  half  the  world,  to  all  the  country 
round.  To  think  how  many  people  he  kept  in  fear;  and 
now,  as  our  curate  told  me  ....  and  then,  only  to  see  his 
face,  he  is  become  a  saint!  And  the  fruits  are  seen  so  di- 
rectly." 

To  assert  this  worthy  person  did  not  feel  much  curiosity 
to  know  rather  more  explicitly  the  wonderful  circumstances 
in  which  she  was  called  upon  to  bear  a  part,  would  not  be  the 
truth.  But  we  must  say,  to  her  honour,  that,  restrained  by 
a  respectful  pity  for  Lucia,  and  feeling,  in  a  manner,  the 
gravity  and  dignity  of  the  charge  which  had  been  entrusted 
to  her,  she  never  even  thought  of  putting  an  indiscreet  or 
idle  question;  throughout  the  whole  journey,  her  words  were 
those  of  comfort  and  concern  for  the  poor  girl. 

"  Heaven  knows  how  long  it  is  since  you  have  eaten  any- 
thing! " 

"  I  don't  remember  ....  not  for  some  time." 

"  Poor  thing!  you  must  want  something  to  strengthen 
you?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lucia,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Thank  God,  we  shall  get  something  at  home  directly. 
Take  heart,  for  it's  not  far  now." 

Lucia  then  sank  languidly  to  the  bottom  of  the  litter,  as 
if  overcome  with  drowsiness,  and  the  good  woman  left  her 
cjuietly  to  repose. 

To  Don  Abbondio  the  return  was  certainly  not  so  harass- 


THE   BETROTHED 


349 


ing  as  the  journey  thither  not  long  before;  but,  neverthe- 
less, even  this  was  not  a  ride  of  pleasure.  When  his  over- 
whelming fears  had  subsided,  he  felt,  at  first,  as  if  relieved 
from  every  burden;  but  very  shortly  a  hundred  other  fancies 
began  to  haunt  his  imagination;  as  the  ground  whence  a 
large  tree  has  been  uprooted  remains  bare  and  empty  for  a 
time,  but  is  soon  abundantly  covered  with  weeds.  He  had 
become  more  sensitive  to  minor  causes  of  alarm;  and  in 
thoughts  of  the  present,  as  well  as  the  future,  failed  not  to 
find  only  too  many  materials  for  self-torment.  He  felt  now, 
much  more  than  in  coming,  the  inconveniences  of  a  mode 
of  travelling  to  which  he  was  not  at  all  accustomed,  and  par- 
ticularly in  the  descent  from  the  castle  to  the  bottom  of  the 
valley.  The  mule-driver,  obedient  to  a  sign  from  the  Un- 
named, drove  on  the  animals  at  a  rapid  pace;  the  two  riders 
followed  in  a  line  behind,  with  corresponding  speed,  so  that, 
in  sundry  steep  places,  the  unfortunate  Don  Abbondio,  as  if 
forced  up  by  a  lever  behind,  rolled  forward,  and  was  obliged 
to  keep  himself  steady  by  grasping  the  pommel  of  the  saddle; 
not  daring  to  request  a  slower  pace,  and  anxious,  also,  to  get 
out  of  the  neighbourhood  as  quickly  as  he  could.  Besides 
this,  wherever  the  road  was  on  an  eminence,  on  the  edge  of  a 
steep  bank,  the  mule,  according  to  the  custom  of  its  species, 
seemed  as  if  aiming,  out  of  contempt,  always  to  keep  on  the 
outside,  and  to  set  its  feet  on  the  very  brink;  and  Don  Ab- 
bondio saw,  almost  perpendicularly  beneath  him,  a  good  leap, 
or,  as  he  thought,  a  precipice.  *'  Even  you,"  said  he  to  the  ani- 
mal, in  his  heart,  ''  have  a  cursed  inclination  to  go  in  search 
of  dangers,  when  there  is  such  a  safe  and  wide  path."  And 
he  pulled  the  bridle  to  the  opposite  side,  but  in  vain ;  so  that, 
grumbling  with  vexation  and  fear,  he  suffered  himself,  as 
usual,  to  be  guided  at  the  will  of  others.  The  ruffians  no 
longer  gave  him  so  much  alarm,  now  that  he  knew  for  certain 
how  their  master  regarded  them.  But,  reflected  he,  if  the 
news  of  this  grand  conversion  should  get  abroad  among 
them  while  we  are  still  here,  who  knows  how  these  fellows 
would  take  it?  Who  knows  what  might  arise  from  it?  What, 
if  they  should  get  an  idea  that  I  am  come  hither  as  a  mis- 
sionary! Heaven  preserve  me!  they  would  martyr  me! 
The  haughty  brow  of  the  Unnamed  gave  him  no  uneasiness. 
To  keep  those  visages  there  in  awe,  thought  he,  it  needs 
no  less  than  this  one  here;  I  understand  that  myself;  but  why 
has  it  fallen  to  my  lot  to  be  thrown  among  such  people? 

But  enough;    they  reached  the  foot  of  the  descent,  and 
at  length  also  issued  from  the  valley.    The  brow  of  the  Un- 


350 


MANZONI 


named  became  gradually  smoother.  Don  Abbondio,  too,  as- 
sumed a  more  natural  expression,  released  his  head  somewhat 
from  imprisonment  between  his  shoulders,  stretched  his  legs 
and  arms,  tried  to  be  a  little  more  at  his  ease,  which,  in  truth, 
made  him  look  like  a  different  creature,  drew  his  breath  more 
freely,  and,  with  a  calmer  mind,  proceeded  to  contemplate 
other  and  remoter  dangers.  What  will  that  villain  of  a  Don 
Rodrigo  say?  To  be  left  in  this  way,  wronged,  and  open  to 
ridicule;  just  fancy  whether  that  won't  be  a  bitter  dose. 
Now's  the  time  when  he'll  play  the  devil  outright.  It  re- 
mains to  be  seen  whether  he  won't  be  angry  with  me,  because 
I  have  been  mixed  up  wath  this  business.  If  he  has  already 
chosen  to  send  those  two  demons  to  meet  me  on  the  high 
road  with  such  an  intimation,  what  will  he  do  now,  Heaven 
knows!  He  can't  quarrel  with  his  illustrious  Lordship,  for 
he's  rather  out  of  his  reach;  he'll  be  obliged  to  gnaw  the  bit 
with  him.  But  all  the  while  the  venom  will  be  in  his  veins,  and 
he'll  be  sure  to  vent  it  upon  somebody.  How  will  all  these 
things  end?  The  blow  must  always  fall  somewhere;  the  lash 
must  be  uplifted.  Of  course,  his  illustrious  Lordship  intends 
to  place  Lucia  in  safety:  that  other  unfortunate  misguided 
youth  is  beyond  reach,  and  has  already  had  his  share;  so  be- 
hold the  lash  must  fall  upon  my  shoulders.  It  will  indeed  be 
cruel,  if,  after  so  many  inconveniences,  and  so  much  agitation, 
without  my  deserving  it,  too,  in  the  least,  I  should  have  to  bear 
the  punishment.  What  will  his  most  illustrious  Grace  do  now 
to  protect  me,  after  having  brought  me  into  the  dance?  Can 
he  ensure  that  this  cursed  wTetch  w^on't  play  me  a  worse  trick 
than  before?  And,  besides,  he  has  so  many  things  to  think 
of;  he  puts  his  hand  to  so  many  businesses.  How  can  he 
attend  to  all?  Matters  are  sometimes  left  more  entangled 
than  at  first.  Those  who  do  good,  do  it  in  the  gross;  w^hen 
they  have  enjoyed  this  satisfaction,  they've  had  enough,  and 
won't  trouble  themselves  to  look  after  the  consequences;  but 
they  who  have  such  a  taste  for  evil-doings,  are  much  more 
diligent;  they  follow  it  up  to  the  end,  and  give  themselves  no 
rest,  because  they  have  an  ever-devouring  canker  within 
them.  Must  I  go  and  say  that  I  came  here  at  the  express 
command  of  his  illustrious  Grace,  and  not  with  my  own  good 
will?  That  would  seem  as  if  I  favoured  the  wicked  side.  Oh, 
sacred  Heaven!  I  favour  the  wicked  side!  For  the  pleasure 
it  gives  me!  Well;  the  best  plan  will  be  to  tell  Perpetua  the 
case  as  it  is,  and  then  leave  it  to  her  to  circulate  it;  provided 
my  Lord  doesn't  take  a  fancy  to  make  the  whole  matter 
public,  and  bring  even  me  into  the  scene.     At  any  rate,  as 


THE   BETROTHED 


351 


soon  as  ever  we  arrive,  if  he's  out  of  church,  Til  go  and  take 
my  leave  of  him  as  quickly  as  possible;  if  he's  not,  I'll  leave 
an  apology,  and  go  off  home  at  once.  Lucia  is  well  attended 
to;  there's  no  need  for  me;  and  after  so  much  trouble,  I, 
too,  may  claim  a  little  repose.  And  besides  ....  what  if 
my  Lord  sliould  feel  some  curiosity  to  know  the  whole  his- 
tory, and  it  should  fall  to  me  to  give  an  account  of  that  wed- 
ding business!  This  is  all  that  is  wanting  to  complete  it. 
And  if  he  should  come  on  a  visit  to  my  parish?  ....  Oh, 
let  it  be  what  it  will,  I  will  not  trouble  myself  about  it  before- 
hand; I  have  troubles  enough  already.  For  the  present,  I 
shall  shut  myself  up  at  home.  As  long  as  his  Grace  is  in 
this  neighbourhood,  Don  Rodrigo  won't  have  the  face  to 
make  a  stir.  And  afterward  ....  oh,  afterward!  Ah,  I  see 
that  my  last  years  are  to  be  spent  in  sorrow! 

The  party  arrived  before  the  services  in  the  church  were 
over;  they  passed  through  the  still  assembled  crowd,  which 
manifested  no  less  emotion  than  on  the  former  occasion,  and 
then  separated.  The  two  riders  turned  aside  into  a  small 
square,  at  the  extremity  of  which  stood  the  curate's  resi- 
dence, while  the  litter  went  forward  to  that  of  the  good 
woman. 

Don  Abbondio  kept  his  word:  scarcely  dismounted,  he 
paid  the  most  obsequious  compliments  to  the  Unnamed,  and 
begged  him  to  make  an  apology  for  him  to  his  Grace,  as  he 
must  return  immediately  to  his  parish  on  urgent  business. 
He  then  went  to  seek  for  what  he  called  his  horse,  that  is  to 
say,  his  walking-stick,  which  he  had  left  in  a  corner  of  the 
hall,  and  set  off  on  foot.  The  Unnamed  remained  to  wait  till 
the  Cardinal  returned  from  church. 

The  good  woman,  having  accommodated  Lucia  with  the 
best  seat  in  the  best  place  in  her  kitchen,  hastened  to  prepare 
a  little  refreshment  for  her,  refusing,  with  a  kind  of  rustic 
cordiality,  her  reiterated  expressions  of  thanks  and  apology. 

Hastily  putting  some  dry  sticks  under  a  vessel,  which  she 
had  replaced  upon  the  lire,  and  in  which  floated  a  good  capon, 
she  quickly  made  the  broth  boil;  and- then,  filling  from  it  a 
porringer,  already  furnished  with  sops  of  bread,  she  was  at 
length  able  to  offer  it  to  Lucia.  And  on  seeing  the  poor  girl 
refreshed  at  every  spoonful,  she  congratulated  herself  aloud, 
that  all  this  had  happened  on  a  day  when,  as  she  said,  the  cat 
was  not  sitting  on  the  hearth-stone.  "  Everybody  contrives 
to  set  out  a  table  to-day,"  added  she,  "  unless  it  be  those  poor 
creatures  who  can  scarcely  get  bread  of  vetches,  and  a  polenta 
of  millet;    however,  they  all  hope  to  beg  something  to-day, 


352 


MANZONI 


from  such  a  charitable  Signer.  We,  thank  Heaven,  are  not 
so  badly  off:  what  with  my  husband's  business,  and  a  little 
plot  of  ground,  we  can  live  very  well,  so  that  you  needn't 
hesitate  to  eat  with  a  good  appetite;  the  chicken  will  soon 
be  done,  and  you  can  then  refresh  yourself  with  something 
better."  And,  receiving  the  little  porringer  from  her  hand, 
she  turned  to  prepare  the  dinner,  and  to  set  out  the  table  for 
the  family. 

Invigorated  in  body,  and  gradually  revived  in  heart,  Lucia 
now  began  to  settle  her  dress,  from  an  instinctive  habit  of 
cleanliness  and  modesty:  she  tied  up  and  arranged  afresh 
her  loose  and  dishevelled  tresses,  and  adjusted  the  handker- 
chief over  her  bosom,  and  around  her  neck.  In  doing  this, 
her  fingers  became  entangled  in  the  chaplet  she  had  hung 
there;  her  eye  rested  upon  it;  it  aroused  an  instantaneous 
agitation  in  her  heart;  the  remembrance  of  her  vow,  hitherto 
suppressed  and  stifled  by  the  presence  of  so  many  other  sen- 
sations, suddenly  rushed  upon  her  mind,  and  presented  itself 
clearly  and  distinctly  to  her  view.  The  scarcely-recovered 
powers  of  her  soul  were  again  at  once  overcome;  and  had 
she  not  been  previously  prepared  by  a  life  of  innocence,  resig- 
nation, and  confiding  faith,  the  consternation  she  experienced 
at  that  moment  would  have  amounted  to  desperation.  After 
a  tumultuous  burst  of  such  thoughts  as  were  not  to  be  ex- 
pressed in  words,  the  only  ones  she  could  form  in  her  mind 
were — Oh,  poor  me,  whatever  have  I  done! 

But  scarcely  had  she  indulged  the  thought,  when  she  felt 
a  kind  of  terror  at  having  done  so.  She  recollected  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  vow,  her  insupportable  anguish,  her 
despair  of  all  human  succour,  the  fervency  of  her  prayer, 
the  entireness  of  feeling  with  which  the  promise  had  been 
made.  And  after  having  obtained  her  petition,  to  repent  of 
her  promise  seemed  to  her  nothing  less  than  sacrilegous  in- 
gratitude and  perfidity  toward  God  and  the  Virgin;  she  im- 
agined that  such  unfaithfulness  would  draw  down  upon  her 
new  and  more  terrible  misfortunes,  in  which  she  could  not  find 
consolation  even  in  prayer;  and  she  hastened  to  abjure  her 
momentary  regret.  Reverently  taking  the  rosary  from  her 
neck,  and  holding  it  in  her  trembling  hand,  she  confirmed  and 
renewed  the  vow,  imploring,  at  the  same  time,  with  heart- 
rending earnestness,  that  strength  might  be  given  her  to 
fulfil  it;  and  that  she  might  be  spared  such  thoughts  and  oc- 
currences as  would  be  likely,  if  not  to  disturb  her  resolution, 
at  least  to  harass  her  beyond  endurance.  The  distance  of 
Renzo,  without  any  probability  of  return,  that  distance  which 


THE   BETROTHED  353 

she  had  hitherto  felt  so  painful,  now  seemed  to  her  a  dispen- 
sation of  Providence,  who  had  made  the  two  events  work 
together  for  the  same  end;  and  she  sought  to  find  in  the  one 
a  motive  of  consolation  for  the  other.  And,  following  up  this 
thought,  she  began  representing  to  herself  that  the  same 
Providence,  to  complete  the  work,  would  know  what  means 
to  employ  to  induce  Renzo  himself  to  be  resigned,  to  think 
no  more  ....  But  scarcely  had  such  an  idea  entered  her 
mind,  when  all  was  again  overturned.  The  poor  girl,  feel- 
ing her  heart  still  prone  to  regret  the  vow,  again  had  recourse 
to  prayer,  confirmation  of  the  promise,  and  inward  struggles, 
from  which  she  arose,  if  the  expression  may  be  allowed  us, 
like  the  wearied  and  wounded  victor  from  his  fallen  enemy. 

At  this  moment  she  heard  approaching  footsteps  and  joy- 
ous cries.  It  was  the  little  family  returning  from  church. 
Two  little  girls  and  a  young  boy  bounded  into  the  house, 
who,  stopping  a  moment  to  cast  an  inquisitive  glance  at  Lucia, 
ran  to  their  mother,  and  gathered  around  her;  one  inquiring 
the  name  of  the  unknown  guest,  and  how,  and  why;  another 
attempting  to  relate  the  wonderful  things  they  had  just  wit- 
nessed; while  the  good  woman  replied  to  each  and  all,  "  Be 
quiet,  be  quiet."  With  a  more  sedate  step,  but  with  cordial 
interest  depicted  on  his  countenance,  the  master  of  the  house 
then  entered.  He  was,  if  we  have  not  yet  said  so,  the  tailor 
of  the  village  and  its  immediate  neighbourhood;  a  man  who 
knew  how  to  read,  who  had,  in  fact,  read  more  than  once 
II  Leggendario  de'  Santi,  and  I  Reali  di  Francia,  and  who 
passed  among  his  fellow-villagers  as  a  man  of  talent  and 
learning;  a  character,  however,  which  he  modestly  disclaimed, 
only  saying,  that  he  had  mistaken  his  vocation,  and  that,  had 
he  applied  himself  to  study,  instead  of  so  many  others  .... 
and  so  on.  With  all  this,  he  was  the  best-tempered  creature 
in  the  world.  Having  been  present  when  his  wife  was  re- 
quested by  the  curate  to  undertake  her  charitable  journey, 
he  had  not  only  given  his  approbation,  but  would  also  have 
added  his  persuasion,  had  it  been  necessary.  And  now  that 
the  services,  the  pomp,  the  concourse,  and  above  all,  the  ser- 
mon of  the  Cardinal,  had,  as  the  saying  is,  elevated  all  his 
best  feelings,  he  returned  home  w4th  eager  anticipations,  and 
an  anxious  desire  to  know  how  the  thing  had  succeeded,  and 
to  find  the  innocent  young  creature  safe. 

*' See,  there  she  is!"  said  his  good  wife,  as  he  entered, 
pointing  to  Lucia,  who  blushed,  and  rose  from  her  seat,  be- 
ginning to  stammer  forth  some  apology.  But  he,  advancing 
toward  her,  interrupted  her  excuses,  congratulating  her  on 

23 


354  MANZONI 

her  safety,  and  exclaiming:  "Welcome,  welcome!  You  are 
the  blessing  of  Heaven  in  this  house.  How  glad  I  am  to 
see  you  here!  I  was  pretty  sure  you  would  be  brought  out 
safely;  for  Tve  never  found  that  the  Lord  began  a  miracle 
without  bringing  it  to  a  good  end;  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you 
here.  Poor  girl !  but  it  is  indeed  a  great  thing  to  have  received 
a  miracle! " 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  he  was  the  only  person  who 
thus  denominated  this  event,  because  he  had  read  the  Leger^- 
dary;  as  long  as  the  remembrance  of  it  lasted,  it  was  spo- 
ken of  in  no  other  terms  in  the  whole  village,  and  through- 
out the  neighbourhood.  And,  to  say  truth,  considering  its 
attendant  and  following  consequences,  no  other  name  is  so 
appropriate. 

Then,  sidling  up  to  his  wife,  who  was  taking  the  kettle 
oflf  the  hook  over  the  fire,  he  whispered,  "  Did  evervthing  go 
on  well?  " 

''  Very  well;  I'll  tell  you  afterward." 

"  Yes,  yes,  at  your  convenience." 

Dinner  now  being  quickly  served  up,  the  mistress  of  the 
house  went  up  to  Lucia,  and  leading  her  to  the  table,  made 
her  take  a  seat;  then  cutting  ofif  a  wing  of  the  fowl,  she  set 
it  before  her,  and  she  and  her  husband  sitting  down,  they 
both  begged  their  dispirited  and  bashful  guest  to  make  her- 
self at  home,  and  take  something  to  eat.  Between  every 
mouthful,  the  tailor  began  to  talk  with  great  eagerness,  in 
spite  of  the  interruptions  of  the  children,  who  stood  round 
the  table  to  their  meal,  and  who,  in  truth,  had  seen  too 
many  extraordinary  things,  to  play,  for  any  length  of  time, 
the  part  of  mere  listeners.  He  described  the  solemn  cere- 
monies, and  then  passed  on  to  the  miraculous  conversion. 
But  that  which  had  made  most  impression  upon  him,  and 
to  which  he  most  frequently  returned,  was  the  Cardinal's 
sermon. 

"  To  see  him  there  before  the  altar,"  said  he,  "  a  gentle- 
man like  him,  like  a  curate  .  .  .  ." 

"  And  that  gold  thing  he  had  on  his  head  .  .  .  ."  said  a 
little  girl. 

"  Hush!  To  think,  I  say,  that  a  gentleman  like  him,  such 
a  learned  man,  too,  that  from  what  people  say,  he  has  read 
all  the  books  there  are  in  the  world;  a  thing  which  nobody  else 
has  ever  done,  not  even  in  Milan — to  think  that  he  knew 
how  to  say  things  in  such  a  way,  that  every  one  under- 
stood .  .  .  ." 

"  Even  I  understood  very  well,"  said  another  little  prattler. 


THE   BETROTHED 


355 


"  Hold  your  tongue !  what  may  you  have  understood,  I 
wonder?  " 

'*  I  understood  that  he  was  explaining  the  Gospel,  instead 
of  the  Signor  Curate." 

**  Well,  be  quiet.  I  don't  say  those  who  know  something, 
for  then  one  is  obliged  to  understand;  but  even  the  dullest 
and  most  ignorant  could  follow  out  the  sense.  Go  now  and 
ask  them  if  they  could  repeat  the  words  that  he  spoke:  I'll 
engage  they  could  not  remember  one;  but  the  meaning  they 
will  have  in  their  heads.  And  without  ever  mentioning  the 
name  of  that  Signor,  how  easy  it  was  to  see  that  he  was  allud- 
ing to  him!  Besides,  to  understand  that,  one  had  only  to 
observe  him  with  the  tears  standing  in  his  eye.  And  then 
the  whole  church  began  to  weep  .  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  indeed,  they  did,"  burst  forth  the  little  boy;  ''but 
why  were  they  all  crying  in  that  way,  like  children?" 

''  Hold  your  tongue!  Surely  there  are  some  hard  hearts 
in  this  country.  And  he  made  us  see  so  well,  that  though 
there  is  a  famine  here,  we  ought  to  thank  God,  and  be  con- 
tent; do  whatever  we  can,  work  industriously,  help  one  an- 
other, and  then  be  content,  because  it  is  no  disgrace  to  suflfer 
and  be  poor;  the  disgrace  is  to  do  evil.  And  these  are  not 
only  fine  words;  for  everybody  knows  that  he  lives  like  a 
poor  man  himself,  and  takes  the  bread  out  of  his  own  mouth 
to  give  to  the  hungry,  when  he  might  be  enjoying  good  times 
better  than  any  one.  Ah!  then  it  gives  one  satisfaction  to 
hear  a  man  preach :  not  like  so  many  others :  *  Do  what  I 
say,  and  not  what  I  do.'  And  then  he  showed  us  that  even 
those  who  are  not  what  they  call  gentlemen,  if  they  have  more 
than  they  actually  want,  are  bound  to  share  it  with  those  who 
are  suffering." 

Here  he  interrupted  himself,  as  if  checked  by  some 
thought.  He  hesitated  a  moment;  then  filling  a  platter  from 
the  several  dishes  on  the  table,  and  adding  a  loaf  of  bread, 
he  put  it  into  a  cloth,  and  taking  it  by  the  four  corners,  said 
to  his  eldest  girl,  *'  Here,  take  this."  He  then  put  into  her 
other  hand  a  little  flask  of  wine,  and  added:  "Go  down  to 
the  widow  Maria,  leave  her  these  things,  and  tell  her  it  is  to 
make  a  little  feast  with  her  children.  But  do  it  kindly  and 
nicely,  you  know;  that  it  may  not  seem  as  if  you  were  doing 
her  a  charity.  And  don't  say  anything,  if  you  meet  any  one; 
and  take  care  you  break  nothing." 

Lucia's  eyes  glistened,  and  her  heart  glowed  with  tender 
emotion,  as,  from  the  conversation  she  had  already  heard, 
she  had  received  more  comfort  than  an  expressly  consolatory 


356 


MANZONI 


sermon  could  possibly  have  imparted  to  her.  Her  mind,  at- 
tracted by  these  descriptions,  these  images  of  pomp,  and 
these  emotions  of  piety  and  wonder,  and  sharing  in  the  very 
enthusiasm  of  the  narrator,  was  detached  from  the  consid- 
eration of  his  own  sorrows,  and  on  returning  to  them,  found 
itself  strengthened  to  contemplate  them.  Even  the  thought 
of  her  tremendous  sacrifice,  though  it  had  not  lost  its  bitter- 
ness, brought  with  it  something  of  austere  and  solemn  joy. 

Shortly  afterward,  the  curate  of  the  village  entered,  and 
said  that  he  was  sent  by  the  Cardinal  to  inquire  after  Lucia, 
and  to  inform  her  that  his  Grace  wished  to  see  her  some  time 
during  the  day;  and  then,  in  his  Lordship's  name,  he  returned 
many  thanks  to  the  worthy  couple.  Surprised  and  agitated, 
the  three  could  scarcely  find  words  to  reply  to  such  messages 
from  so  great  a  personage. 

"And  your  mother  hasn't  yet  arrived?"  said  the  curate 
to  Lucia. 

**  My  mother!  "  exclaimed  the  poor  girl.  Then  hearing 
from  him  how  he  had  sent  to  fetch  her  by  the  order  and  sug- 
gestion of  the  Archbishop,  she  drew  her  apron  over  her  eyes, 
and  gave  way  to  a  flood  of  tears,  which  continued  to  flow 
for  some  time  after  the  curate  had  taken  his  leave.  When, 
however,  the  tumultuous  feelings  which  had  been  excited  by 
such  an  announcement  began  to  yield  to  more  tranquil 
thoughts,  the  poor  girl  remembered  that  the  now  closely  im- 
pending happiness  of  seeing  her  mother  again,  a  happiness 
so  unhoped-for  a  few  hours  previous,  was  what  she  had  ex- 
pressly implored  in  those  very  hours,  and  almost  stipulated  as 
a  condition  of  her  vow.  "  Bring  me  in  safety  to  my  mother," 
she  had  said;  and  these  words  now  presented  themselves  dis- 
tinctly to  her  memory.  She  strengthened  herself  more  than 
ever  in  the  resolution  to  maintain  her  promise,  and  afresh  and 
more  bitterly  lamented  the  struggle  and  regret  she  had  for  a 
moment  indulged. 

Agnese,  indeed,  while  they  were  talking  about  her,  was 
but  a  very  little  way  of¥.  It  may  easily  be  imagined  how  the 
poor  woman  felt  at  this  unexpected  summons,  and  at  the  an- 
nouncement, necessarily  defective  and  confused,  of  an  escaped 
but  fearful  danger — an  obscure  event,  which  the  messenger 
could  neither  circumstantiate  nor  explain,  and  of  which  she 
had  not  the  slightest  ground  of  explanation  in  her  own  previ- 
ous thoughts.  After  tearing  her  hair — after  frequent  exclama- 
tions of  "  Ah  my  God !  Ah  Madonna !  " — after  putting  various 
questions  to  the  messenger  which  he  had  not  the  means  of 
satisfying,  she  threw  herself  impetuously  into  the  vehicle,  con- 


THE    BETROTHED 


357 


tinning  to  utter,  on  her  way,  numberless  ejaculations  and 
useless  inquiries.  But  at  a  certain  point  she  met  Don  Ab- 
bondio,  trudging  on,  step  after  step,  and  before  each  step,  his 
walking-stick.  After  an  '*  oh!  "  from  both  parties,  he  stopped; 
Agnese  also  stopped  and  dismounted;  and  drawing  him  apart 
into  a  chestnut-grove  on  the  roadside,  she  there  learnt  from 
Don  Abbondio  all  that  he  had  been  able  to  ascertain  and  ob- 
serve. The  thing  was  not  clear;  but  at  least  Agnese  was  as- 
sured that  Lucia  was  in  safety;  and  she  again  breathed  freely. 

After  this  Don  Abbondio  tried  to  introduce  another  sub- 
ject, and  give  her  minute  instructions  as  to  how  she  ought 
to  behave  before  the  Archbishop,  if,  as  was  likely,  he  should 
wish  to  see  her  and  her  daughter;  and,  above  all,  that  it 
would  not  do  to  say  a  word  about  the  wedding  ....  But 
Agnese,  perceiving  that  he  was  only  speaking  for  his  own 
interest,  cut  him  short,  without  promising,  indeed  without 
proposing,  anything,  for  she  had  something  else  to  think 
about;  and  immediately  resumed  her  journey. 

At  length  the  cart  arrived,  and  stopped  at  the  tailor's  house. 
Lucia  sprang  up  hastily;  Agnese  dismounted  and  rushed  im- 
petuously into  the  cottage,  and,  in  an  instant,  they  were  locked 
in  each  other's  arms.  The  good  dame,  who  alone  was  pres- 
ent, tried  to  encourage  and  calm  them,  and  shared  with  them 
in  their  joy;  then,  with  her  usual  discretion,  she  left  them  for 
a  while  alone,  saying  that  she  would  go  and  prepare  a  bed 
for  them,  for  which,  indeed,  she  had  the  means,  though,  in 
any  case,  both  she  and  her  husband  would  much  rather  have 
slept  upon  the  ground,  than  suffer  them  to  go  in  search  of 
shelter  elsewhere  for  that  night. 

The  first  burst  of  sobs  and  embraces  being  over,  Agnese 
longed  to  hear  Lucia's  adventures,  and  the  latter  began, 
mournfully,  to  relate  them.  But,  as  the  reader  is  aware,  it 
was  a  history  which  no  one  knew  fully;  and  to  Lucia  her- 
self there  were  some  obscure  passages,  which  were,  in  fact, 
quite  inextricable:  more  particularly  the  fatal  coincidence  of 
that  terrible  carriage  being  in  the  road,  just  when  Lucia  was 
passing  on  an  extraordinary  occasion.  On  this  point,  both 
mother  and  daughter  were  lost  in  conjecture,  without  ever 
hitting  the  mark,  or  even  approaching  the  real  cause. 

As  to  the  principal  author  of  the  plot,  neither  one  nor  the 
other  could  for  a  moment  doubt  but  that  it  was  Don  Rodrigo. 

"Ah,  the  black  villain!  ah,  the  infernal  firebrand!"  ex- 
claimed Agnese;  "but  his  hour  will  come.  God  will  reward 
him  according  to  his  works;  and  then  he,  too,  will 
feel  ,  .  .  r 


358 


MANZONI 


"No,  no,  mother;  no!"  interrupted  Lucia;  "don't  pre- 
dict suffering  for  him;  don't  predict  it  to  any  one!  If  you 
knew  what  it  was  to  suffer!  If  you  had  tried  it!  No,  no! 
rather  let  us  pray  God  and  the  Madonna  for  him:  that 
God  would  touch  his  heart,  as  he  had  done  to  this 
other  poor  Signor,  who  was  worse  than  he  is,  and  is  now  a 

saint." 

The  shuddering  horror  that  Lucia  felt  in  retracing  such 
recent  and  cruel  scenes,  made  her  more  than  once  pause  in 
the  midst;  more  than  once  she  said  she  had  not  courage  to 
go  on;  and,  after  many  tears,  with  difficulty  resumed  her  ac- 
count. But  a  different  feeling  checked  her  at  a  certain  point 
of  the  narration — at  the  mention  of  the  vow.  The  fear  of 
being  blamed  by  her  mother  as  imprudent  and  precipitate; 
or  that,  as  in  the  affair  of  the  wedding,  she  should  bring  for- 
ward one  of  her  broad  rules  of  conscience,  and  try  to  make  it 
prevail;  or  that,  poor  woman,  she  should  tell  it  to  some  one 
in  confidence,  if  nothing  else,  to  obtain  light  and  counsel, 
and  thus  make  it  publicly  known,  from  the  bare  idea  of  which 
Lucia  shrank  back  with  insupportable  shame;  together  with 
a  feeling  of  present  shame,  an  inexplicable  repugnance  to 
speak  on  such  a  subject;  all  these  things  together  determined 
her  to  maintain  absolute  silence  on  this  important  circum- 
stance, proposing,  in  her  own  mind,  to  open  herself  first  to 
Father  Cristoforo.  But  what  did  she  feel,  when,  in  inquir- 
ing after  him,  she  heard  that  he  was  no  longer  at  Pescarenico; 
that  he  had  been  sent  to  a  town  far,  far  away,  to  a  town  bear- 
ing such  and  such  a  name! 

"  And  Renzo?  "  said  Agnese. 

"He's  in  safety,  isn't  he?"  said  Lucia,  hastily. 

"  That  much  is  certain,  because  everybody  says  so ;  it  is 
thought,  too,  pretty  surely,  that  he's  gone  to  the  territory  of 
Bergamo;  but  the  exact  place  nobody  knows:  and  hitherto 
he  has  sent  no  news  of  himself.  Perhaps  he  hasn't  yet  found 
a  way  of  doing  so." 

"Ah,  if  he's  in  safety,  the  Lord  be  praised!"  said  Lucia; 
and  she  was  seeking  some  other  subject  of  conversation,  when 
they  were  interrupted  by  an  unexpected  novelty — the  appear- 
ance of  the  Cardinal  Archbishop. 

This  holy  prelate,  having  returned  from  church,  where 
we  last  left  him,  and  having  heard  from  the  Unnamed  of 
Lucia's  safe  arrival,  had  sat  down  to  dinner,  placing  his  new 
friend  on  his  right  hand,  in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  priests, 
who  were  never  weary  of  casting  glances  at  that  countenance, 
now  so  subdued  without  weakness,  so  humble  without  dejec- 


THE   BETROTHED 


359 


tion,  and  of  comparing  him  with  the  idea  they  had  so  long 
entertained  of  this  formidable  personage. 

Dinner  being  removed,  the  two  again  withdrew  together. 
After  a  conversation,  which  lasted  much  longer  than  the  first, 
the  Unnamed  set  off  anew  for  his  castle,  on  the  same  mule 
which  had  borne  him  thither  in  the  morning;  and  the  Cardi- 
nal, calling  the  priest  of  the  parish,  told  him  that  he  wished 
to  be  guided  to  the  house  where  Lucia  had  found  shelter. 

**  Oh,  my  Lord!"  replied  the  parish  priest,  *' allow  me, 
and  I  will  send  directly  to  bid  the  young  girl  come  here,  with 
her  mother,  if  she  has  arrived,  and  their  hosts  too,  if  my  Lord 
wishes — indeed,  all  that  your  illustrious  Grace  desires  to  see." 

*'  I  wish  to  go  myself  to  see  them,"  replied  Federigo. 

"  There's  no  necessity  for  your  illustrious  Lordship  to 
give  yourself  that  trouble;  I  will  send  directly  to  fetch  them: 
it's  very  quickly  done,"  insisted  the  persevering  spoiler  of 
his  plans  (a  worthy  man  on  the  whole),  not  comprehending 
that  the  Cardinal  wished  by  this  visit  to  do  honour  at  once 
to  the  unfortunate  girl,  to  innocence,  to  hospitality,  and  to 
his  own  ministry.  But  the  superior  having  again  expressed 
the  same  desire,  the  inferior  bowed,  and  led  the  way. 

When  the  two  companions  were  seen  to  enter  the  street, 
every  one  immediately  gathered  round  them;  and,  in  a  few 
moments,  people  flocked  from  every  direction,  forming  two 
wings  at  their  sides,  and  a  train  behind.  The  curate  otliciously 
repeated:  "Come,  come,  keep  back,  keep  off;  fie!  fie!" 
Federigo,  however,  forbade  him:  "Let  them  alone,  let  them 
alone;  "  and  he  walked  on,  now  raising  his  hand  to  bless  the 
people,  now  lowering  it  to  fondle  the  children,  who  gathered 
round  his  feet.  In  this  way  they  reached  the  house,  and  en- 
tered, the  crowd  hedging  round  the  door  outside.  In  this 
crowd  the  tailor  also  found  himself,  having  followed  behind, 
like  the  rest,  with  eager  eyes  and  open  mouth,  not  knowing 
whither  they  were  going.  When  he  saw,  however,  this  unex- 
pected whither,  he  forced  the  throng  to  make  way,  it  may  be 
imagined  with  what  bustle,  crying  over  and  over  again,  ''  Make 
way  for  one  who  has  a  right  to  pass !  "  and  so  went  into  the 
house. 

Agnese  and  Lucia  heard  an  increasing  murmur  in  the 
street,  and  while  wondering  what  it  could  be,  saw  the  door 
thrown  open,  and  admit  the  purple-clad  prelate,  and  the  priest 
of  the  parish. 

"Is  this  she?"  demanded  Federigo  of  the  curate;  and 
on  receiving  a  sign  in  the  affirmative,  he  advanced  toward 
Lucia,  who  was  holding  back  with  her  mother,  both  of  them 


360  MANZONI 

motionless,  and  mute  with  surprise  and  bashfulness;  but  the 
tone  of  his  voice,  the  countenance,  the  behaviour,  and,  above 
all,  the  words  of  Federigo,  quickly  reanimated  them.  "  Poor 
girl,"  he  began,  "  God  has  permitted  you  to  be  put  to  a  great 
trial;  but  He  has  surely  shown  you  that  His  eye  was  still  over 
you,  that  He  had  not  forgotten  you.  He  has  restored  you  in 
safety,  and  has  made  use  of  you  for  a  great  work,  to  show  in- 
finite mercy  to  one,  and  to  relieve,  at  the  same  time,  many 
others." 

Here  the  mistress  of  the  house  came  into  the  apartment, 
who,  at  the  bustle  outside,  had  gone  to  the  window  upstairs, 
and  seeing  who  was  entering  the  house,  hastily  ran  down,  after 
slightly  arranging  her  dress;  and  almost  at  the  same  moment 
the  tailor  made  his  appearance  at  another  door.  Seeing  their 
guests  engaged  in  conversation,  they  quietly  withdrew  into 
one  corner,  and  waited  there  with  profound  respect.  The 
Cardinal,  having  courteously  saluted  them,  continued  to  talk 
to  the  women,  mingling  with  his  words  of  comfort  many  in- 
quiries, thinking  he  might  possibly  gather  from  their  replies 
some  way  of  doing  good  to  one  who  had  undergone  so  much 
suffering. 

"  It  would  be  well  if  all  priests  were  like  your  Lordship,  if 
they  would  sometimes  take  the  part  of  the  poor,  and  not  help 
to  put  them  into  difficulties  to  get  themselves  out,"  said 
Agnese,  emboldened  by  the  kind  and  affable  behaviour  of 
Federigo,  and  annoyed  at  the  thought  that  the  Signor  Don 
Abbondio,  after  having  sacrificed  others  on  every  occasion, 
should  now  even  attempt  to  forbid  their  giving  vent  to  their 
feelings,  and  complaining  to  one  who  was  set  in  authority 
over  him,  when,  by  an  unusual  chance,  the  occasion  for  do- 
ing so  presented  itself. 

"Just  say  all  that  you  think,"  said  the  Cardinal;  "speak 
freely." 

"  I  mean  to  say,  that  if  our  Signor  Curate  had  done  his 
duty,  things  wouldn't  have  gone  as  they  have." 

But  the  Cardinal  renewing  his  request  that  she  should  ex- 
plain herself  more  fully,  she  began  to  feel  rather  perplexed  at 
having  to  relate  a  story  in  which  she,  too,  had  borne  a  part  she 
did  not  care  to  make  known,  especially  to  such  a  man.  How- 
ever, she  contrived  to  manage  it,  with  the  help  of  a  little  curtail- 
ing. She  related  the  intended  match,  and  the  refusal  of  Don 
Abbondio;  nor  was  she  silent  on  the  pretext  of  the  superiors 
which  he  had  brought  forward  (ah,  Agnese!);  and  then  she 
skipped  on  to  Don  Rodrigo's  attempt,  and  how,  having^  been 
warned  of  it,  they  had  been  able  to  make  their  escape.     "  But, 


THE   BETROTHED  361 

indeed,"  added  she,  in  conclusion,  "  we  only  escaped  to  be 
again  caught  in  the  snare.  If  instead,  the  Signor  Curate  had 
honestly  told  us  the  whole,  and  had  immediately  married  my 
poor  children,  we  would  have  gone  away  all  together  directly, 
privately,  and  far  enough  off,  to  a  place  where  not  even  the 
wind  would  have  known  us.  But,  in  this  way,  time  was  lost; 
and  now  has  happened  what  has  happened." 

"  The  Signor  Curate  shall  render  me  an  account  of  this 
matter,"  said  the  Cardinal. 

"Oh  no,  Signor,  no!"  replied  Agnese;  "I  didn't  speak 
on  that  account:  don't  scold  him;  for  what  is  done,  is  done; 
and,  besides,  it  will  do  no  good;  it  is  his  nature;  and  on  an- 
other occasion  he  would  do  just  the  same." 

But  Lucia,  dissatisfied  with  this  way  of  relating  the  story, 
added:  "  We  have  also  done  wrong:  it  shows  it  was  not  the 
Lord's  will  tliat  the  plan  should  succeed." 

"What  can  you  have  done  wrong,  my  poor  girl?"  asked 
Federigo. 

And,  in  spite  of  the  threatening  glances  which  her  mother 
tried  to  give  her  secretly,  Lucia,  in  her  turn,  related  the  his- 
tory of  their  attempt  in  Don  Abbondio's  house;  and  concluded 
by  saying,  "  We  have  done  wrong,  and  God  has  punished 
us  for  it." 

"  Take,  as  from  His  hand,  the  sufferings  you  have  under- 
gone, and  be  of  good  courage,"  said  Federigo;  "  for  who  have 
reason  to  rejoice  and  be  hopeful,  but  those  who  have  suffered, 
and  are  ready  to  accuse  themselves?  " 

He  then  asked  where  was  her  betrothed;  and  hearing 
from  Agnese  (Lucia  stood  silent,  with  her  head  bent,  and 
downcast  eyes)  how  he  had  been  outlawed,  he  felt  and  ex- 
pressed surprise  and  dissatisfaction,  and  asked  why  it  was. 

Agnese  stammered  out  what  little  she  knew  of  Renzo's  his- 
tory. 

"I  have  heard  speak  of  this  youth,"  said  the  Cardinal; 
"  but  how  happens  it  that  a  man  involved  in  affairs  of  this  sort 
is  in  treaty  of  marriage  with  this  young  girl?  " 

"  He  was  a  worthy  youth,"  said  Lucia,  blushing,  but  in  a 
firm  voice. 

"  He  was  even  too  quiet  a  lad,"  added  Agnese;  "  and  you 
may  ask  this  of  anybody  you  like,  even  of  the  Signor  Curate. 
Who  knows  what  confusion  they  may  have  made  down  there, 
what  intrigues?  It  takes  little  to  make  poor  people  seem 
rogues." 

"Indeed,  it's  too  true,"  said  the  Cardinal;  "I'll  certainly 
make  inquiries  about  him;  "  and  learning  the  name  and  resi- 


362  MANZONI 

dence  of  the  youth,  he  made  a  memorandum  of  them  on  his 
tablets.  He  added,  that  he  expected  to  be  at  their  village  in 
a  few  days,  that  then  Lucia  might  go  thither  without  fear, 
and  that,  in  the  mean  while,  he  would  think  about  providing 
her  some  secure  retreat,  till  everything  was  arranged  for  the 
best. 

Then  turning  to  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  house,  who 
immediately  came  forward,  he  renewed  the  acknowledgments 
which  he  had  already  conveyed  through  the  priest  of  the  par- 
ish, and  asked  them  whether  they  were  willing  to  receive,  for  a 
few  days,  the  guests  which  God  had  sent  them. 

"  Oh  yes,  sir!  "  replied  the  woman,  in  a  tone  of  voice  and 
with  a  look  which  meant  much  more  than  the  bare  words 
seemed  to  express.  But  her  husband,  quite  excited  by  the 
presence  of  such  an  interrogator,  and  by  the  wish  to  do  him 
honour  on  so  important  an  occasion,  anxiously  sought  for 
some  fine  reply.  He  wrinkled  his  forehead,  strained  and 
squinted  with  his  eyes,  compressed  his  lips,  stretched  his  intel- 
lect to  its  utmost  extent,  strove,  fumbled  about  in  his  mind, 
and  there  found  an  overwhelming  medley  of  unfinished  ideas 
and  half-formed  words:  but  time  pressed;  the  Cardinal  sig- 
nified that  he  had  already  interpreted  his  silence;  the  poor 
man  opened  his  mouth  and  pronounced  the  words,  "  You 
may  imagine!  "  At  this  point  not  another  word  would  occur 
to  him.  This  failure  not  only  disheartened  and  vexed  him  at 
the  moment,  but  the  tormenting  remembrance  ever  after 
spoiled  his  complacency  in  the  great  honour  he  had  received. 
And  how  often,  in  thinking  it  over,  and  fancying  himself  again 
in  the  same  circumstances,  did  numberless  words  crowd  upon 
his  mind,  as  it  were,  out  of  spite,  any  of  which  would  have  been 
better  than  that  silly  You  may  imagine!  But  are  not  the  very 
ditches  full  of  wisdom — too  late! 

The  Cardinal  took  his  leave,  saying,  "  The  blessing  of  God 
be  upon  this  house." 

The  same  evening  he  asked  the  curate  in  what  way  he 
could  best  compensate  the  tailor,  who  certainly  could  not  be 
rich,  for  the  expenses  he  must  have  incurred,  especially  in 
these  times,  by  his  hospitality.  The  curate  replied  that  in 
truth  neither  the  profits  of  his  business  nor  the  produce  of 
some  small  fields  which  the  good  tailor  owned  would  be 
enough  this  year  to  allow  of  his  being  liberal  to  others;  but 
that,  having  laid  by  a  little  in  preceding  years,  he  was  among 
the  most  easy  in  circumstances  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
could  easily  afford  to  do  a  little  kindness  without  inconven- 
ience, as  he  certainly  would  with  all  his  heart;  and  that,  under 


THE   BETROTHED  363 

any  circumstances,  he  would  deem  it  an  insult  to  be  offered 
money  in  compensation. 

"  He  will,  probably,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "  have  demands 
on  people  unable  to  pay." 

"  You  may  judge  yourself,  my  most  illustrious  Lord:  these 
poor  people  pay  from  the  overplus  of  the  harvest.  Last  year 
there  was  no  overplus;  and  this  one,  everybody  falls  short  of 
absolute  necessaries." 

*'  Very  well,"  replied  Federigo,  "  I  will  take  all  these  debts 
upon  myself;  and  you  will  do  me  the  pleasure  of  getting  from 
him  a  list  of  the  sums,  and  discharging  them  for  me." 

"  It  will  be  a  tolerable  sum." 

"  So  much  the  better:  and  you  will  have,  I  dare  say,  many 
more  wretched,  and  almost  destitute  of  clothing,  who  have  no 
debts,  because  they  can  get  no  credit." 

"  Alas!  too  many!  One  does  what  one  can;  but  how  can 
w^e  supply  all  in  times  like  these?  " 

"  Tell  him  to  clothe  them  at  my  expense,  and  pay  him  well. 
Really,  this  year,  all  that  does  not  go  for  bread  seems  a  kind 
of  robbery;  but  this  is  a  particular  case." 

We  can  not  close  the  history  of  this  day  without  briefly  re- 
lating how  the  Unnamed  concluded  it. 

This  time  the  report  of  his  conversion  had  preceded  him 
in  the  valley,  and  quickly  spreading  throughout  it,  had  ex- 
cited among  all  the  inhabitants  consternation,  anxiety,  and 
angry  whisperings.  To  the  first  bravoes  or  servants  (it  mat- 
tered not  which)  whom  he  met,  he  made  signs  that  they 
should  follow  him;  and  so  on,  on  either  hand.  All  fell  behind 
with  unusual  perplexity  of  mind,  but  with  their  accustomed 
submission:  so  that, -with'  a  continually  increasing  train,  he  at 
length  reached  the  castle.  He  beckoned  to  those  who  were 
loitering  about  the  gate  to  follow  him  with  the  others ;  entered 
the  first  court,  went  toward  the  middle,  and  here,  seated  all 
the  while  on  his  saddle,  uttered  one  of  his  thundering  calls:  it 
was  the  accustomed  signal  at  which  all  his  dependents  who 
were  within  hearing  immediately  flocked  toward  him.  In  a 
moment,  all  thcyse  who  were  scattered  throughout  the  castle 
attended  to  the  summons,  and  mingled  with  the  already  as- 
sembled party,  gazing  eagerly  at  their  master. 

"  Go,  and  \\^ait  for  me  in  the  great  hall,"  said  he;  and,  from 
his  higher  station  on  horseback,  he  watched  them  all  move 
ofT.  He  then  dismounted,  led  the  animal  to  the  stables 
himself,  and  repaired  to  the  room  where  he  was  expected. 
On  his  appes.rance,  a  loud  whispering  was  instantly  hushed, 
and  retiring  to  one  side,  they  left  a  large  space  in  the  hall 


3^4 


MANZONI 


quite  clear  for  him:  there  may  have  been,  perhaps,  about 
thirty  present. 

The  Unnamed  raised  his  hand,  as  if  to  preserve  the  silence 
his  presence  had  already  created,  raised  his  head,  which  tow- 
ered above  all  those  of  the  assemblage,  and  said :  "  Listen,  all 
of  you,  and  let  no  one  speak  unless  I  bid  him.  My  friends! 
the  path  we  have  hitherto  followed  leads  to  the  depths  of  hell. 
I  do  not  mean  to  upbraid  you,  I,  who  have  been  foremost 
of  you  all,  the  worst  of  all ;  but  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say. 
The  merciful  God  has  called  me  to  change  my  life;  and  I  will 
change  it,  I  have  already  changed  it:  so  may  He  do  with  you 
all!  Know,  then,  and  hold  it  for  certain,  that  I  am  resolved 
rather  to  die  than  to  do  anything  more  against  His  holy  laws. 
I  revoke  all  the  wicked  commands  you  may  any  of  you  have 
received  from  me;  you  understand  me;  indeed,  I  command 
you  not  to  do  anything  I  have  before  commanded.  And  hold 
it  equally  certain,  that  no  one,  from  this  time  forward,  shall  do 
evil  with  my  sanction,  in  my  service.  He  w^ho  will  remain 
with  me  under  these  conditions  shall  be  to  me  as  a  son :  and  I 
shall  feel  happy  at  the  dose  of  that  day  in  which  I  shall  not 
have  eaten,  that  I  may  supply  the  last  of  you  with  the  last  loaf 
I  have  left  in  the  house.  He  who  does  not  wish  to  remain, 
shall  receive  what  is  due  of  his  salary,  and  an  additional  gift: 
he  may  go  away,  but  must  never  again  set  foot  here,  unless 
it  be  to  change  his  life ;  for  this  purpose  he  shall  always  be  re- 
ceived with  open  arms.  Think  about  it  to-night:  to-morrow 
morning  I  will  ask  you  one  by  one  for  your  reply,  and  will 
then  give  you  new  orders.  For  the  present  retire,  every  one 
to  his  post.  And  God,  who  has  exercised  such  mercy  to- 
ward me,  incline  you  to  good  resolutions ! " 

Here  he  ceased,  and  all  continued  silent.  How  various 
and  tumultuous  soever  might  be  the  thoughts  at  work  in 
their  hardened  minds,  they  gave  no  outward  demonstration 
of  emotion.  They  were  accustomed  to  receive  the  voice  of 
their  master  as  the  declaration  of  a  will  from  which  there  was 
no  appeal;  and  that  voice,  announcing  that  the  will  was 
changed,  in  no  wise  denoted  that  it  w-as  enfeebled.  It  never 
crossed  the  mind  of  one  of  them  that,  because  he  was  con- 
verted, they  might  therefore  assume  over  him,  and  reply  to 
him  as  to  another  man.  They  beheld  in  him  a  saint,  but  one 
of  those  saints  who  are  depicted  with  lofty  brows  and  swords 
in  their  hands.  Besides  the  fear  he  inspired,  tiiey  also  enter- 
tained for  him  (especially  those  born  in  his  service,  and  they 
were  a  large  proportion)  the  afifection  of  subjects;  they  had  all, 
besides,  a  kindly  feeling  of  admiration  for  him,  and  experi- 


THE   BETROTHED 


3^5 


enced  in  his  presence  a  species  of,  I  will  even  say,  modest  hu- 
mility, such  as  the  rudest  and  most  wanton  spirits  feel  before 
an  authority  which  they  have  once  recognized.  Again,  the 
things  they  had  just  heard  from  his  lips  were  doubtless  odious 
to  their  ears,  but  neither  false,  nor  entirely  alien  to  their  under- 
standings: if  they  had  a  thousand  times  ridiculed  them,  it  was 
not  because  they  disbelieved  them,  but  to  obviate,  by  ridicule, 
the  fear  which  any  serious  consideration  of  them  would  have 
awakened.  And  now,  on  seeing  the  effect  of  this  fear  on  a 
mind  like  that  of  their  master,  there  was  not  one  who  did  not 
either  more  or  less  sympathize  with  him,  at  least  for  a  little 
while.  In  addition  to  all  this,  those  among  them  who  had  first 
heard  the  grand  news  beyond  the  valley,  had  at  the  same  time 
witnessed  and  related  the  joy,  the  exultation  of  the  people,  the 
new  favour  with  which  the  Unnamed  was  regarded,  and  the 
veneration  so  suddenly  exchanged  for  their  former  hatred — 
their  former  terror.  So  that  in  the  man  whom  they  had 
always  regarded,  so  to  say,  as  a  superior  being,  even  while 
they,  in  a  great  measure,  themselves  constituted  his  strength, 
they  now  beheld  the  wonder,  the  idol  of  a  multitude ;  they  be- 
held him  exalted  above  others,  in  a  different  but  not  less  real 
manner;  ever  above  the  common  throng,  ever  at  the  head. 
They  stood  now  confounded,  uncertain  one  of  another,  and 
each  one  of  himself.  Some  murmured;  some  began  to  plan 
whither  they  could  go  to  find  shelter  and  employment;  some 
questioned  with  themselves  whether  they  could  make  up  their 
minds  to  become  honest  men;  some  even,  moved  by  his 
words,  felt  a  sort  of  inclination  to  do  so ;  others,  without  resolv- 
ing upon  anything,  proposed  to  promise  everything  readily,  to 
remain  in  the  mean  while  where  they  could  share  the  loaf  so 
willingly  offered  and  in  those  days  so  scarce,  and  thus  gain 
time  for  decision:  no  one,  however,  uttered  a  syllable.  And 
when,  at  the  close  of  his  speech,  the  Unnamed  again  raised 
his  authoritative  hand,  and  beckoned  to  them  to  disperse,  they 
all  moved  of¥  in  the  direction  of  the  door  as  quietly  as  a  flock 
of  sheep.  He  followed  them  out,  and  placing  himself  in  the 
middle  of  the  court-yard,  stood  to  watch  them  by  the  dim  even- 
ing light,  as  they  separated  from  each  other,  and  repaired  to 
their  several  posts.  Then,  returning  to  fetch  a  lantern,  he 
again  traversed  the  courts,  corridors,  and  halls,  visited  every 
entrance,  and,  after  seeing  that  all  was  quiet,  at  length  retired 
to  sleep.     Yes,  to  sleep,  because  he  was  sleepy. 

Never,  though  he  had  always  industriously  courted  them, 
had  he,  in  any  conjuncture,  been  so  overburdened  with  in- 
tricate and  at  the  same  time  urgent  affairs,  as  at  the  present 


366 


MANZONI 


moment;  yet  he  was  sleepy.  The  remorse,  which  had  robbed 
him  of  rest  the  night  before,  was  not  only  unsubdued,  but 
even  spoke  more  loudly,  more  sternly,  more  absolutely:  yet 
he  was  sleepy.  The  order,  the  kind  of  government  estab- 
lished by  him  in  that  castle  for  so  many  years,  with  so  much 
care,  and  such  a  singular  union  of  rashness  and  perseverance, 
he  had  now  himself  overturned  by  a  few  words ;  the  unlimited 
devotion  of  his  dependents,  their  readiness  for  any  undertak- 
ing, their  rufhan-like  fidelity,  on  which  he  had  long  been  ac- 
customed to  depend — these  he  had  himself  shaken;  his  vari- 
ous engagements  had  become  a  tissue  of  perplexities;  he  had 
brought  confusion  and  uncertainty  into  his  household:  yet  he 
was  sleepy. 

He  went,  therefore,  into  his  chamber,  approached  that  bed, 
which,  the  night  before,  he  had  found  such  a  thorny  couch, 
and  knelt  down  at  its  side  with  the  intention  of  praying.  He 
found,  in  fact,  in  a  deep  and  hidden  corner  of  his  mind,  the 
prayers  he  had  been  taught  to  repeat  as  a  child;  he  began  to 
recite  them,  and  the  words  so  long  wrapped  up,  as  it  were,  to- 
gether, flowed  one  after  another,  as  if  emerging  once  more  to 
light.  He  experienced  in  this  act  a  mixture  of  undefined  feel- 
ings; a  kind  of  soothing  pleasure,  in  this  actual  return  to  the 
habits  of  innocent  childhood;  a  doubly  bitter  contrition  at 
the  thought  of  the  gulf  that  he  had  placed  between  those  for- 
mer days  and  the  present;  an  ardent  desire  to  attain,  by  works 
of  expiation,  a  clearer  conscience,  a  state  more  nearly  resem- 
bling that  of  innocence,  to  which  he  could  never  return;  to- 
gether with  a  feeling  of  deep  gratitude,  and  of  confidence  in 
that  mercy  which  could  lead  him  toward  it,  and  had  already 
given  so  many  tokens  of  willingness  to  do  so.  Then,  rising 
from  his  knees,  he  lay  down,  and  was  quickly  wrapt  in  sleep. 

Thus  ended  a  day  still  so  much  celebrated  when  our  anon- 
ymous author  wrote:  a  day  of  which,  had  he  not  written, 
nothing  would  have  been  known,  at  least  nothing  of  the  par- 
ticulars; for  Ripamonti  and  Rivola,  whom  we  have  quoted 
above,  merely  record  that,  after  an  interview  with  Federigo, 
this  remarkable  tyrant  wonderfully  changed  his  course  of 
life,  and  for  ever.  And  how  few  are  there  who  have  read 
the  works  of  these  authors!  Fewer  still  are  there  who  will 
read  this  of  ours.  And  who  knows  whether  in  the  valley  it- 
self, if  any  one  had  the  inclination  to  seek  and  the  ability  to 
find  it  there  now  remains  the  smallest  trace,  the  most  con- 
fused tradition,  of  such  an  event?  So  many  things  have  taken 
place  since  that  time! 


CHAPTER   XXV 

NEXT  day  there  was  no  one  spoken  of  in  Lucia's  village 
and  throughout  the  whole  territory  of  Lecco,  but  her- 
self,  the   Unnamed,   the   Archbishop,   and   one   other 
person,  who,  however  ambitious  to  have  his  name  in 
men's  mouths,  would  willingly,  on  this  occasion,  have  dis- 
pensed with  the  honour:  we  mean  the  Signor  Don  Rodrigo. 

Not  that  his  doings  had  not  before  been  talked  about;  but 
they  were  detached,  secret  conversations;  and  that  man  must 
have  been  very  well  acquainted  with  his  neighbour  who  would 
have  ventured  to  discourse  with  him  freely  on  such  a  subject. 
Nay,  people  did  not  even  exercise  those  feelings  on  the  sub- 
ject of  wdiich  they  were  capable;  for,  generally  speaking, 
when  men  can  not  give  vent  to  their  indignation  without  im- 
minent danger,  they  not  only  show  less  than  they  feel,  or  dis- 
guise it  entirely,  but  they  feel  less  in  reality.  But  now,  who 
could  refrain  from  inquiring  and  reasoning  about  so  notorious 
an  event,  in  which  the  hand  of  Heaven  had  been  seen,  and  in 
which  two  such  personages  bore  a  conspicuous  part?  One, 
in  whom  such  a  spirited  love  of  justice  was  united  to  so  much 
authority;  the  other,  who,  with  all  his  boldness,  had  been  in- 
duced, as  it  were,  to  lay  down  his  arms,  and  submit.  By  the 
side  of  these  rivals,  Don  Rodrigo  looked  rather  insignificant. 
Now,  all  understood  what  it  was  to  torment  innocence  with 
the  wish  to  dishonour  it;  to  persecute  it  with  such  insolent 
perseverance,  with  such  atrocious  violence,  with  such  abomi- 
nable treachery.  They  reviewed,  on  this  occasion,  all  the  other 
feats  of  the  Signor,  and  said  what  they  thought  about  all, 
each  one  being  emboldened  by  finding  everybody  else  of  the 
same  opinion.  There  were  whisperings  and  general  mur- 
murs; cautiously  uttered,  however,  on  account  of  the  num- 
berless bravoes  he  had  around  him. 

A  large  share  of  public  animadversion  fell  also  upon  his 
friends  and  flatterers.  They  said  of  the  Signor  Podesta  what 
he  richly  deserved,  always  deaf,  and  blind,  and  dumb,  on  the 
doings  of  this  tyrant;  but  this  also  cautiously,  for  the  Po- 

367 


368  MANZONI 

desta  had  bailiffs.  With  the  Doctor  Azzecca-GarbugU,  who 
had  no  weapons  but  gossiping  and  cabals,  and  with  other  flat- 
terers like  himself,  they  did  not  use  so  much  ceremony;  these 
were  pointed  at,  and  regarded  with  very  contemptuous  and 
suspicious  glances,  so  that  for  some  time  they  judged  it  ex- 
pedient to  keep  as  much  within  doors  as  possible. 

Don  Rodrigo,  astounded  at  this  unlooked  for  news,  so  dif- 
ferent to  the  tidings  he  had  expected  day  after  day,  and  hour 
after  hour,  remained  ensconced  in  his  den-like  palace,  with  no 
one  to  keep  him  company  but  his  bravoes,  devouring  his  rage, 
for  two  days,  and  on  the  third  set  off  for  Milan.  Had  there 
been  nothing  else  but  the  murmuring  of  the  people,  perhaps, 
since  things  had  gone  so  far,  he  would  have  stayed  on  purpose 
to  face  it,  or  even  to  seek  an  opportunity  of  making  an  exam- 
ple to  others  of  one  of  the  most  daring;  but  the  certain  intelli- 
gence that  the  Cardinal  was  coming  into  the  neighbourhood 
fairly  drove  him  away.  The  Count,  his  uncle,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  story  but  what  he  had  been  told  by  Attilio, 
would  certainly  expect  that  on  such  an  occasion  Don  Rodri- 
go should  be  the  first  to  wait  upon  the  Cardinal,  and  receive 
from  him  in  public  the  most  distinguished  reception:  every 
one  must  see  how  he  was  on  the  road  to  this  consummation! 
The  Count  expected  it,  and  would  have  required  a  minute  ac- 
count of  the  visit;  for  it  was  an  important  opportunity  of 
showing  in  what  esteem  his  family  was  held  by  one  of  the  head 
powers.  To  extricate  himself  from  so  odious  a  dilemma,  Don 
Rodrigo,  rising  one  morning  before  the  sun,  threw  himself 
into  his  carriage,  Griso  and  some  other  bravoes  outside,  both 
in  front  and  behind;  and  leaving  orders  that  the  rest  of  his 
household  should  follow  him,  took  his  departure,  like  a  fugi- 
tive— like  (it  will,  perhaps,  be  allowed  us  to  exalt  our  charac- 
ters by  so  illustrious  a  comparison) — like  Catiline  from  Rome, 
fretting  and  fuming,  and  swearing  to  return  very  shortly  in  a 
different  guise  to  execute  his  vengeance. 

— ifn  the  mean  while,  the  Cardinal  proceeded  on  his  visita- 
tion among  the  parishes  in  the  territory  of  Lecco,  taking  one 
each  day.  On  the  day  in  which  he  was  to  arrive  at  Lucia's 
village,  a  large  part  of  the  inhabitants  were  early  on  the  road 
to  meet  him.  At  the  entrance  of  the  village,  close  by  the  cot- 
tage of  our  two  poor  women,  was  erected  a  triumphal  arch, 
constructed  of  upright  stakes,  and  poles  laid  crosswise,  cov- 
ered with  straw  and  moss,  and  ornamented  with  green 
boughs  of  holly,  distinguishable  bv  its  scarlet  berries,  and 
other  shrubs.  The  front  of  the  church  was  adorned  with 
tapestry;    from    every    window-ledge    hung    extended    quilts 


THE   BETROTHED 


369 


and  sheets,  and  infants'  swaddling-clothes,  disposed  like  drap- 
ery; in  short,  all  the  few  necessary  articles  which  could  be 
converted,  either  badly  or  otherwise,  into  the  appearance  of 
something  superfluous.  Toward  evening  (the  hour  at  which 
Federigo  usually  arrived  at  the  church,  on  his  visitation  tours), 
all  who  had  remained  within  doors,  old  men,  women,  and 
children,  for  the  most  part,  set  ofif  to  meet  him,  some  in  pro- 
cession, some  in  groups,  headed  by  Don  Abbondio,  who,  in 
the  midst  of  the  rejoicing,  looked  disconsolate  enough,  both 
from  the  stunning  noise  of  the  crowd,  and  the  continual  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro  of  the  people,  which,  as  he  himself  expressed  it, 
quite  dimmed  his  sight,  together  with  a  secret  apprehension 
that  the  women  might  have  been  babbling,  and  that  he  would 
be  called  upon  to  render  an  account  of  the  wedding. 

At  length  the  Cardinal  came  in  sight,  or,  to  speak  more 
correctly,  the  crowd  in  the  midst  of  which  he  was  carried  in 
his  litter,  surrounded  by  his  attendants;  for  nothing  could  be 
distinguished  of  his  whole  party  but  a  signal  towering  in  the 
air  above  the  heads  of  the  people,  part  of  the  cross,  which  was 
borne  by  the  chaplain,  mounted  upon  his  mule.  The  crowd, 
which  was  advancing  with  Don  Abbondio,  hurried  forward  in 
a  disorderly  manner  to  join  the  approaching  party;  while  he, 
after  ejaculating  three  or  four  times,  **  Gently;  in  procession; 
what  are  you  doing?  "  turned  back  in  vexation,  and  mutter- 
ing to  himself,  "  It's  a  perfect  Babel,  it's  a  perfect  Babel,"  went 
to  take  refuge  in  the  church  until  they  had  dispersed;  and 
here  he  awaited  the  Cardinal. 

The  holy  prelate  in  the  mean  while  advanced  slowly,  be- 
stowing benedictions  with  his  hand,  and  receiving  them  from 
the  mouths  of  the  multitude,  while  his  followers  had  enough 
to  do  to  keep  their  places  behind  him.  As  Lucia's  country- 
men, the  villagers  were  anxious  to  receive  the  Archbishop 
with  more  than  ordinary  honours,  but  this  was  no  easy  matter; 
for  it  had  long  been  customary  wherever  he  went  for  all  to 
do  the  most  they  could.  At  the  very  beginning  of  his  epis- 
copate, on  his  first  solemn  entry  into  the  cathedral,  the  rush 
and  crowding  of  the  populace  upon  him  were  such  as  to  ex- 
cite fears  for  his  life;  and  some  of  the  gentlemen  who  were 
nearest  to  him,  had  actually  drawn  their  swords  to  terrify  and 
repulse  the  press.  Such  were  their  violence  and  uncouth 
manners,  that  even  in  making  demonstrations  of  kindly  feel- 
ing to  a  bishop  in  church,  and  attempting  to  regulate  them,  it 
was  necessary  almost  to  have  recourse  to  bloodshed.  And 
that  defence  would  not,  perhaps,  have  proved  sufficient,  had 
not  two  priests,  strong  in  body,  and  bold  in  spirit,  raised  him 
24 


270  MANZONI 

in  their  arms,  and  carried  him  at  once  from  the  door  of  the 
temple  to  the  very  foot  of  the  high  altar.  From  that  time  for- 
ward, in  the  many  episcopal  visits  he  had  to  make,  his  first 
entrance  into  the  church  might,  without  joking,  be  reckoned 
among  his  pastoral  labours,  and  sometimes  even  among  the 
dangers  he  had  incurred. 

On  this  occasion  he  entered  as  he  best  could,  went  up  to 
the  altar,  and  thence,  after  a  short  prayer,  addressed,  as  was 
his  custom,  a  few  words  to  his  auditors,  of  his  affection  for 
them,  his  desire  for  their  salvation,  and  the  way  in  which  they 
ought  to  prepare  themselves  for  the  services  of  the  morrow. 
Then  retiring  to  the  parsonage,  among  many  other  things  he 
had  to  consult  about  with  the  curate,  he  questioned  him  as 
to  the  character  and  conduct  of  Renzo.  Don  Abbondio  said 
that  he  was  rather  a  brisk,  obstinate,  hot-headed  fellow.  But 
on  more  particular  and  precise  interrogations,  he  was  obliged 
to  admit  that  he  was  a  worthy  youth,  and  that  he  himself  could 
not  understand  how  he  could  have  played  all  the  mischievous 
tricks  at  Milan,  which  had  been  reported  of  him. 

''And  about  the  young  girl,"  resumed  the  Cardinal;  "do 
you  think  she  may  now  return  in  security  to  her  own 
home?" 

*'  For  the  present,"  replied  Don  Abbondio,  "  she  might 
come  and  be  as  safe — the  present,  I  say — as  she  wishes ;  but," 
added  he  with  a  sigh,  "  your  illustrious  Lordship  ought  to  be 
always  here,  or,  at  least,  near  at  hand." 

"  The  Lord  is  always  near,"  said  the  Cardinal;  "  as  to  the 
rest,  I  will  think  about  placing  her  in  safety."  And  he  hastily 
gave  orders  that  early  next  morning  a  litter  should  be  de- 
spatched with  an  attendant  to  fetch  the  two  women. 

Don  Abbondio  came  out  from  the  interview  quite  delight- 
ed that  the  Cardinal  had  talked  to  him  about  the  two  young 
people,  without  requiring  an  account  of  his  refusal  to  marry 
them.  Then  he  knows  nothing  about  it — said  he  to  himself: 
Agnese  has  held  her  tongue.  Wonderful!  They  have  to  see 
him  again;  but  I  will  give  them  further  instructions,  that  I 
will. — He  knew  not,  poor  man,  that  Federigo  had  not  entered 
upon  the  discussion,  just  because  he  intended  to  speak  to 
him  about  it  more  at  length  when  they  were  disengaged;  and 
that  he  wished,  before  giving  him  what  he  deserved,  to  hear 
his  side  of  the  question. 

But  the  intentions  of  the  good  prelate  for  the  safe  placing 
of  Lucia  had,  in  the  mean  while,  been  rendered  unnecessary: 
after  he  had  left  her,  other  circumstances  had  occurred  which 
we  v/ill  now  proceed  to  relate. 


THE   BETROTHED 


371 


The  two  women,  during  the  few  days  which  they  had  to 
pass  in  the  tailor's  hospitable  dwelling,  had  resumed,  as  far  as 
they  could,  each  her  former  and  accustomed  manner  of  living. 
Lucia  had  very  soon  begged  some  employment;  and,  as  at  the 
monastery,  diligently  plied  her  needle  in  a  small  retired  room 
shut  out  from  the  gaze  of  the  people.  Agnese  occasionally 
went  abroad,  and  at  other  times  sat  sewing  with  her  daughter. 
Their  conversations  were  more  melancholy,  as  well  as  more 
affectionate;  both  were  prepared  for  a  separation;  since  the 
lamb  could  not  return  to  dwell  so  near  the  wolf's  den:  and 
when  and  what  would  be  the  end  of  this  separation?  The  fu- 
ture was  dark,  inextricable;  for  one  of  them  in  particular. 
Agnese,  nevertheless,  indulged  in  her  own  mind  many  cheer- 
ful anticipations,  that  Renzo,  if  nothing  evil  had  happened  to 
him,  would,  sooner  or  later,  send  some  news  of  himself,  and  if 
he  had  found  some  employment  to  which  he  could  settle,  if 
(and  how  could  it  be  doubted?)  he  still  intended  to  keep  faith 
with  Lucia;  why  could  they  not  go  and  live  with  him?  With 
such  hopes  she  often  entertained  her  daughter,  who  found  it, 
it  is  difficult  to  say,  whether  more  mournful  to  listen  to  them, 
or  painful  to  reply.  Her  great  secret  she  had  always  kept  to 
herself;  and  uneasy,  certainly,  at  concealing  anything  from  so 
good  a  mother,  yet  restrained,  invincibly  as  it  were,  by  shame, 
and  the  different  fears  we  have  before  mentioned,  she  went 
from  day  to  day  without  speaking.  Her  designs  were  very 
different  from  those  of  her  mother,  or  rather,  she  had  no  de- 
signs; she  had  entirely  given  herself  up  to  Providence.  She 
always  therefore  endeavoured  to  divert  or  drop  the  conver- 
sation; or  else  said,  in  general  terms,  that  she  had  no  longer 
any  hope  or  desire  for  anything  in  this  world  except  to  be 
soon  restored  to  her  mother;  more  frequently,  however,  tears 
came  opportunely  instead  of  words. 

"  Do  you  know  why  it  appears  so  to  you?  "  said  Agnese; 
"  because  you've  suffered  so  much,  and  it  doesn't  seem  pos- 
sible that  it  can  turn  out  for  good  to  you.  But  leave  it  to 
God;  and  if  ...  .  Let  a  ray  come,  but  one  ray;  and  then  / 
know  whether  you  will  always  care  about  nothing."  Lucia 
kissed  her  mother,  and  wept. 

Besides  this,  a  great  friendship  quickly  sprang  up  between 
them  and  their  guests:  where,  indeed,  should  it  exist,  unless 
between  benefactors  and  the  benefited,  when  both  one  and  the 
other  are  worthy,  good  people?  Agnese,  particularly,  had 
many  long  chats  with  the  mistress  of  the  house.  The  tailor, 
too,  gave  them  a  little  amusement  with  his  stories  and  moral 
discourses:  and,  at  dinner  especially,  had  always  some  won- 


372  MANZONI 

derful  anecdote  to  relate  of  Buovo  d'Antona,  or  the  Fathers  of 
the  Desert. 

A  few  miles  from  this  village  resided,  at  their  country- 
house,  a  couple  of  some  importance,  Don  Ferrante  and  Don- 
na Prassede :  their  family,  as  usual,  is  not  named  by  our  anon- 
ymous author.  Donna  Prassede  was  an  old  lady,  very  much 
inclined  to  do  good,  the  most  praiseworthy  employment  cer- 
tainly that  a  person  can  undertake;  but  which  like  every 
other  can  be  too  easily  abused.  To  do  good,  we  must  know 
how  to  do  it;  and,  like  everything  else,  we  can  only  know  this 
through  the  medium  of  our  own  passions,  our  own  judgment, 
our  own  ideas;  which  not  unfrequently  are  rather  as  correct 
as  they  are  capable  of  being,  than  as  they  ought  to  be.  Donna 
Prassede  acted  toward  her  ideas  as  it  is  said  one  ought  to  do 
toward  one's  friends;  she  had  few  of  them;  but  to  those  few 
she  was  very  much  attached.  Among  the  few,  there  were,  un- 
fortunately, many  distorted  ones;  nor  was  it  these  she  loved 
the  least.  Hence  it  happened,  either  that  she  proposed  to  her- 
self as  a  good  end  what  was  not  such  in  reality,  or  employed 
means  which  would  rather  produce  an  opposite  effect,  or 
thought  them  allowable  when  they  w^re  not  at  all  so,  from  a 
certain  vague  supposition  that  he  who  does  more  than  his 
duty  may  also  go  beyond  his  right;  it  happened  that  she 
could  not  see  in  an  event  what  was  actually  there,  or  did 
see  what  was  not  there;  and  many  other  similar  things, 
which  may  and  do  happen  to  all,  not  excepting  the  best;  but 
to  Donna  Prassede  far  too  often,  and,  not  unfrequently,  all  at 
once. 

On  hearing  Lucia's  wonderful  case,  and  all  that  was  re- 
ported on  this  occasion  of  the  young  girl,  she  felt  a  great  curi- 
osity to  see  her,  and  sent  a  carriage,  with  an  aged  attendant, 
to  fetch  both  mother  and  daughter.  The  latter  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  besought  the  tailor,  who  was  the  bearer  of  the 
message,  to  find  some  sort  of  excuse  for  her.  So  long  as  it 
only  related  to  the  common  people,  who  tried  to  make  ac- 
quaintance with  the  young  girl  who  had  been  the  subject  of  a 
miracle,  the  tailor  had  willingly  rendered  her  that  service;  but 
in  this  instance,  resistance  seemed  in  his  eyes  a  kind  of  re- 
bellion. He  made  so  many  faces,  uttered  so  many  exclama- 
tions, used  so  many  arguments — '*  that  it  wasn't  customary 
to  do  so,  and  that  it  was  a  grand  house,  and  that  one  shouldn't 
say  '  No  '  to  great  people,  and  that  it  might  be  the  making 
of  their  fortune,  and  that  the  Signora  Donna  Prassede,  besides 
all  the  rest,  was  a  saint  too !  " — in  short,  so  many  things,  that 
Lucia  was  obliged  to  give  way;  more  especially  as  Agnese 


THE   BETROTHED 


373 


confirmed  all  these  reasonings  with  a  corresponding  number 
of  ejaculations:  '*  Certainly,  surely." 

Arrived  in  the  lady's  presence,  she  received  them  with 
much  courtesy  and  numberless  congratulations;  questioning 
and  advising  them  with  a  kind  of  almost  innate  superiority, 
but  corrected  by  so  many  humble  expressions,  tempered  by 
so  much  interest  in  their  behalf,  and  sweetened  with  so  many 
expressions  of  piety,  that  Agnese,  almost  immediately,  and 
Lucia,  not  long  afterward,  began  to  feel  relieved  from  the  op- 
pressive sense  of  awe  with  which  the  presence  of  such  a  lady 
had  inspired  them;  nay,  they  even  found  something  attractive 
in  it.  In  short,  hearing  that  the  Cardinal  had  undertaken  to 
find  Lucia  a  place  of  retreat,  and  urged  by  a  desire  to  second, 
and  at  the  same  time  anticipate  his  good  intention,  Donna 
Prassede  proposed  to  take  the  young  girl  into  her  own  house, 
where  no  other  services  would  be  required  of  her  than  the  use 
of  her  needle,  scissors,  and  spindle;  adding  that  she  would 
take  upon  herself  the  charge  of  informing  his  Lordship. 

Beyond  the  obvious  and  immediate  good  in  this  work, 
Donna  Prassede  saw  in  it,  and  proposed  to  herself,  another, 
perhaps  a  more  considerable  one  in  her  ideas,  that  of  directing 
a  young  mind,  and  of  bringing  into  the  right  way  one  who 
greatly  needed  it;  for,  from  the  first  moment  she  had  heard 
Lucia  mentioned,  she  became  instantly  persuaded,  that,  in  a 
young  girl  who  could  have  promised  herself  to  a  scoundrel, 
a  villain,  in  short,  a  scape-gallows,  there  must  be  some  fault, 
some  hidden  wickedness  lurking  within:  *'  Tell  me  what  com- 
pany you  keep,  and  Fll  tell  you  what  you  are."  Lucia's  visit 
had  confirmed  this  persuasion:  not  that,  on  the  whole,  as  the 
saying  is,  she  did  not  seem  to  Donna  Prassede  a  good  girl;  but 
there  were  many  things  to  favour  the  idea.  That  head  hung 
down  till  her  chin  was  buried  in  her  neck;  her  not  replying 
at  all,  or  only  in  broken  sentences,  as  if  by  constraint,  might 
indicate  modesty;  but  they  undoubtedly  denoted  a  great  deal 
of  wilfulness;  it  did  not  require  much  discernment  to  discover 
that  that  young  brain  had  its  own  thoughts  on  the  subject. 
And  those  blushes  every  moment,  and  those  suppressed  sighs 
.  .  .  .  Two  such  eyes,  too,  which  did  not  please  Donna  Pras- 
sede at  all.  She  held  it  for  certain,  as  if  she  knew  it  on  good 
grounds,  that  all  Lucia's  misfortunes  were  a  chastisement 
from  Heaven  for  her  attachment  to  a  rascal,  and  a  warning  to 
her  to  give  him  up  entirely;  and  these  premises  being  laid 
down,  she  proposed  to  co-operate  toward  so  good  an  end. 
Because,  as  she  often  said  both  to  herself  and  others,  she 
made  it  her  object  to  second  the  will  of  Heaven:  but  she  often 


374  MANZONI  ..^^^ 

fell  into  the  terrible  misconception  of  taking  for  the  will  of 
Heaven  the  fancies  of  her  own  brain.  However,  she  took 
care  not  to  give  the  least  hint  of  the  second  intention  we  have 
named.  It  was  one  of  her  maxims,  that,  to  bring  a  good  de- 
sign to  a  successful  issue,  the  first  requisite,  in  the  greater 
number  of  instances,  is  not  to  let  it  be  discovered. 

The  mother  and  daughter  looked  at  each  other.  Con- 
sidering the  mournful  necessity  of  their  separating,  the  offer 
seemed  to  both  of  them  most  acceptable,  when  they  had  no 
choice  for  it,  on  account  of  the  vicinity  of  the  residence  to 
their  village,  whither,  let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  they 
would  return,  and  be  able  to  meet  at  the  approaching  festivity. 
Seeing  assent  exhibited  in  each  other's  eyes,  they  both  turned 
to  Donna  Prassede  with  such  acknowledgments  as  expressed 
their  acceptance  of  her  proposal.  She  renewed  her  kind  affa- 
bility and  promises,  and  said  that  they  should  shortly  have  a 
letter  to  present  to  his  Lordship.  After  the  women  had  taken 
their  departure,  she  got  Don  Ferrante  to  compose  the  letter. 
He,  being  a  learned  person,  as  we  shall  hereafter  relate  more 
particularly,  was  always  employed  by  her  as  secretary  on  oc- 
casions of  importance.  On  one  of  such  magnitude  as  this, 
Don  Ferrante  exerted  his  utmost  stretch  of  ingenuity;  and  on 
delivering  the  rough  draught  to  his  partner  to  copy,  warmly 
recommended  the  orthography  to  her  notice;  this  being  one 
of  the  many  things  he  had  studied,  and  the  few  over  which  he 
had  any  command  in  the  house.  Donna  Prassede  copied  it 
very  diligently,  and  then  despatched  the  letter  to  the  tailor's. 
This  was  two  or  three  days  before  the  Cardinal  sent  the  litter 
to  convey  the  two  women  home. 

Arriving  at  the  village  before  the  Cardinal  had  gone  to 
church,  they  alighted  at  the  curate's  house.  There  was  an 
order  to  admit  them  immediately :  the  chaplain,  who  was  the 
first  to  see  them,  executed  the  order,  only  detaining  them  so 
long  as  was  necessary  to  school  them  very  hastily  in  the  cere- 
monials they  ought  to  observe  toward  his  Lordship,  and  the 
titles  by  which  they  should  address  him,  his  usual  practice 
wherever  he  could  effect  it  unknown  to  his  Grace.  It  was  a 
continual  annoyance  to  the  poor  man  to  see  the  little  cere- 
mony that  was  used  toward  the  Cardinal  in  this  particular. 
"  All,"  said  he  to  the  rest  of  the  household,  "  through  the  ex- 
cess of  kindness  of  that  saintly  man — from  his  great  familiar- 
itv."  And  then  he  related  how,  with  his  own  ears,  he  had 
more  than  once  even  heard  the  reply,  "  Yes,  sir  "  and  "  No, 
sir." 

The  Cardinal  was  at  this  moment  busily  talking  with  Don. 


THE   BETROTHED 


375 


Abbondio  on  some  parish  matters:  so  that  the  latter  had  not 
the  desired  opportunity  of  giving  his  instructions  also  to  the 
women.  He  could  only  bestow  upon  them  in  passing,  as  he 
withdrew  and  they  came  forward,  a  glance,  which  meant  to 
say  how  well-pleased  he  was  with  them,  and  conjuring  them, 
like  good  creatures,  to  continue  silent. 

After  the  first  kind  greetings  on  one  hand,  and  the  first 
reverent  salutations  on  the  other,  Agnese  drew  the  letter  from 
her  bosom,  and  handed  it  to  the  Cardinal,  saying:  "  It  is  from 
the  Signora  Donna  Prassede,  who  says  she  knows  your  most 
illustrious  Lordship  well,  my  Lord;  it's  natural  enough 
among  such  great  people  that  they  should  know  each  other. 
When  you  have  read  it,  you'll  see." 

**  Very  well,"  said  Federigo,  when  he  had  read  the  letter, 
and  extracted  the  honey  from  Don  Ferrante's  flowers  of  rhet- 
oric. He  knew  the  family  well  enough  to  feel  certain  that 
Lucia  had  been  invited  thither  with  good  intentions,  and  that 
there  she  w^ould  be  secure  from  the  machinations  and  violence 
of  her  persecutor.  What  opinion  he  entertained  of  Donna 
Prassede's  head,  we  have  no  positive  information.  Proba- 
bly she  was  not  the  person  whom  he  would  have  chosen  for 
such  a  purpose;  but,  as  we  have  said  or  hinted  elsewhere,  it 
was  not  his  custom  to  undo  arrangements  made  by  those 
whose  duty  it  was  to  make  them,  that  he  might  do  them  over 
again  better. 

"  Take  this  separation  also,  and  the  uncertainty  in  which 
you  are  placed,  calmly,"  added  he;  **  trust  that  it  will  soon  be 
over,  and  that  God  will  bring  matters  to  that  end  to  which  He 
seems  to  have  directed  them;  but  rest  assured,  that  whatever 
He  wills  shall  happen,  will  be  the  best  for  you."  To  Lucia, 
in  particular,  he  gave  some  further  kind  advice;  another  word 
or  two  of  comfort  to  both;  and  then,  bestowing  on  them  his 
blessing,  he  let  them  go.  At  the  street-door  they  found  them- 
selves surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  friends  of  both  sexes,  the 
whole  population,  we  may  almost  say,  who  were  waiting  for 
them,  and  who  conducted  them  home,  as  in  triumph.  Among 
the  women,  there  was  quite  a  rivalry  in  congratulations,  sym- 
pathy, and  inquiries;  and  all  exclaimed  with  dissatisfaction 
on  hearing  that  Lucia  would  leave  them  the  next  day.  The 
men  vied  with  each  other  in  offering  their  services — every  one 
wished  to  keep  guard  at  the  cottage  for  that  night.  Upon  this 
fact,  our  anonymous  author  thinks  fit  to  ground  a  proverb: 
"Would  you  have  many  ready  to  help  you?  be  sure  not  to 
need  them." 

So  many  welcomes  confounded  and  almost  stunned  Lucia; 


376 


MANZONI 


though  on  the  whole  they  did  her  good,  by  somewhat  dis- 
tracting her  mind  from  those  thoughts  and  recollections  which, 
even  in  the  midst  of  the  bustle  and  excitement,  rose  only  too 
readily  on  crossing  that  threshold,  on  entering  those  rooms,  at 
the  sight  of  every  object. 

When  the  bells  began  to  ring,  announcing  the  approach  of 
the  hour  for  Divine  service,  everybody  moved  toward  the 
church,  and  to  our  newly-returned  friends  it  was  a  second 
triumphal  march. 

Service  being  over,  Don  Abbondio,  who  had  hastened  for- 
ward to  see  if  Perpetua  had  everything  well  arranged  for  din- 
ner, was  informed  that  the  Cardinal  wished  to  speak  with  him. 
He  went  immediately  to  his  noble  guest's  apartment,  who, 
waiting  till  he  drew  near,  "  Signor  Curate,"  he  began — and 
these  words  were  uttered  in  such  a  way  as  to  convey  the  idea 
that  they  were  the  preface  to  a  long  and  serious  conversation 
— "  Signor  Curate,  why  did  you  not  unite  in  marriage  this 
Lucia  with  her  betrothed  husband?" 

Those  people  have  emptied  the  sack  this  morning — thought 
Don  Abbondio,  as  he  stammered  forth  in  reply — "  Your  most 
illustrious  Lordship  will,  doubtless,  have  heard  speak  of  the 
confusions  which  have  arisen  out  of  this  affair:  it  has  all 
been  so  intricate,  that,  to  this  very  day,  one  can  not  see 
one's  way  clearly  in  it:  as  your  illustrious  Lordship  may 
yourself  conclude  from  this,  that  the  young  girl  is  here, 
after  so  many  accidents,  as  it  were  by  miracle;  and  that 
the  bridegroom,  after  other  accidents,  is  nobody  knows 
where." 

"  I  ask,"  replied  the  Cardinal,  "  whether  it  is  true  that,  be- 
fore all  these  circumstances  took  place,  you  refused  to  cele- 
brate the  marriage,  when  you  were  requested  to  do  so,  on  the 
appointed  day;  and  if  so,  why?  " 

'*  Really  ....  if  your  illustrious  Lordship  knew  .... 
what  intimations  ....  what  terrible  injunctions  I  have  re- 
ceived not  to  speak  .  .  .  ."  And  he  paused,  without  conclud- 
ing, with  a  certain  manner  intended  respectfully  to  insinuate, 
that  it  would  be  indiscreet  to  wish  to  know  more. 

"  But,"  said  the  Cardinal,  with  a  voice  and  look  much  more 
serious  than  usual,  "  it  is  your  Bishop  who,  for  his  own  duty's 
sake,  and  for  your  justification,  wishes  to  learn  from  you  why 
you  have  not  done  what,  in  your  regular  duties,  you  were 
bound  to  do?  " 

"  My  Lord,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  shrinking  almost  into  a 
nutshell,  "  I  did  not  like  to  say  before  ....  But  it  seemed 
to  me  that,  things  being  so  entangled,  so  long  gone  by,  and 


THE   BETROTHED 


377 


now  irremediable,  it  was  useless  to  bring  them  up  again  .... 
However — however,  I  say,  I  know  your  illustrious  Lordship 
will  not  betray  one  of  your  poor  priests.  For  you  see,  my 
Lord,  your  illustrious  Lordship  can  not  be  everywhere  at  once ; 
and  I  remain  here  exposed  ....  But,  when  you  command  it, 
I  will  tell  you  ....  I  will  tell  you  all." 

*'  Tell  me :  I  only  wish  to  find  you  free  from  blame." 

Don  Abbondio  then  began  to  relate  the  doleful  history; 
but  suppressing  the  principal  name,  he  merely  substituted  a 
"great  Signor;"  thus  giving  to  prudence  the  little  that  he 
could  in  such  an  emergency. 

"  And  you  had  no  other  motive?  "  asked  the  Cardinal,  hav- 
ing attentively  heard  the  whole. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  not  sufficiently  explained  myself,"  replied 
Don  Abbondio.  "  I  was  prohibited,  under  pain  of  death,  to 
perform  this  marriage." 

"  And  does  this  appear  to  you  a  sufficient  reason  for  omit- 
ting a  positive  duty?" 

"  I  have  always  endeavoured  to  do  my  duty,  even  at  very 
great  inconvenience;  but  when  one's  life  is  concerned  .  .  .  ." 

*'  And  when  you  presented  yourself  to  the  Church,"  said 
Federigo,  in  a  still  more  solemn  tone,  "  to  receive  Holy  Or- 
ders, did  she  caution  you  about  your  life?  Did  she  tell  you 
that  the  dr.ties  belonging  to  the  ministry  were  free  from  every 
obstacle,  exempt  from  every  danger?  or  did  she  tell  you  that 
where  danger  begins,  there  duty  would  end?  Did  she  not  ex- 
pressly say  the  contrary?  Did  she  not  warn  you,  that  she  sent 
you  forth  as  a  sheep  among  wolves?  Did  you  not  know  that 
there  are  violent  oppressors,  to  whom  what  you  are  com- 
manded to  perform  would  be  displeasing?  He  from  whom  we 
have  received  teaching  and  example,  in  imitation  of  whom  we 
suffer  ourselves  to  be  called,  and  call  ourselves,  shepherds; 
when  He  descended  upon  earth  to  execute  His  office,  did  He 
lay  down  as  a  condition  the  safety  of  His  life?  And  to  save  it, 
to  preserve  it,  I  say,  a  few  days  longer  upon  earth,  at  the  ex- 
pense of  charity  and  duty,  did  He  institute  the  holy  unction, 
the  imposition  of  hands,  the  gift  of  the  priesthood?  Leave  it 
to  the  world  to  teach  this  virtue,  to  advocate  this  doctrine. 
What  do  I  say?  Oh,  shame!  the  world  itself  rejects  it:  the 
world  also  makes  its  own  laws,  which  fix  the  limit  of  good  and 
evil;  it,  too,  has  its  gospel,  a  gospel  of  pride  and  hatred;  and 
it  will  no£  have  it  said  that  the  love  of  life  is  a  reason  for  trans- 
gressing its  precepts.  It  will  not,  and  it  is  obeyed.  And  we! 
children  and  proclaimers  of  the  promise!  What  would  the 
Church  be,  if  such  language  as  yours  were  that  of  all  your 


378  MANZONI 

brethren?  Where  would  she  be,  had  she  appeared  in  the 
world  with  these  doctrines?" 

Don  Abbondio  hung  his  head.  His  mind  during  these 
arguments  was  like  a  chicken  in  the  talons  of  a  hawk,  which 
holds  its  prey  elevated  to  an  unknown  region,  to  an  atmos- 
phere it  has  never  before  breathed.  Finding  that  he  must 
make  some  reply,  he  said  in  an  unconvinced  tone  of  submis- 
sion: "  My  Lord,  I  shall  be  to  blame.  When  one  is  not  to  con- 
sider one's  life,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  But  when  one  has 
to  do  with  some  people,  people  who  possess  power,  and  won't 
hear  reason,  I  don't  see  what  is  to  be  gained  by  it,  even  if  one 
were  willing  to  play  the  bravo.  This  Signor  is  one  whom  it  is 
impossible  either  to  conquer,  or  win  over." 

"  And  don't  you  know  that  suffering  for  righteousness' 
sake  is  our  conquest?  If  you  know  not  this,  what  do  you 
preach?  What  are  you  teacher  of?  What  is  the  good  news 
you  a^ounce  to  the  poor?  Who  requires  from  you  that 
you  should  conquer  force  by  force?  Surely  you  will  not  one 
day  be  asked,  if  you  were  able  to  overcome  the  powerful;  for 
for  this  purpose  neither  your  mission  nor  rule  was  given  to 
you.  But  you  will  assuredly  be  demanded,  whether  you  em- 
ployed the  means  you  possessed  to  do  what  was  required  of 
you,  even  when  they  had  the  temerity  to  prohibit  you." 

These  saints  are  very  odd,  thought  Don  Abbondio  mean- 
while:— in  substance,  to  extract  the  plain  meaning,  he  has 
more  at  heart  the  affections  of  two  young  people  than  the  life 
of  a  poor  priest. — And,  as  to  himself,  he  would  have  been  very 
well  satisfied  had  the  conversation  ended  here;  but  he  saw  the 
Cardinal,  at  every  pause,  wait  with  the  air  of  one  who  expects 
a  reply,  a  confession,  or  an  apology — in  short,  something. 

"  I  repeat,  my  Lord,"  answered  he,  therefore,  ''  that  I  shall 
be  to  blame  ....  One  can't  give  one's  self  courage.'* 

**  And  why  then,  I  might  ask  you,  did  you  undertake  an 
ofifice  which  binds  upon  you  a  continual  warfare  with  the  pas- 
sions of  the  world?  But  I  will  rather  say,  how  is  it  you  do 
not  remember  that,  if  in  this  ministry,  however  you  may  have 
been  placed  there,  courage  is  necessary  to  fulfil  your  obliga- 
tions, there  is  One  who  will  infallibly  bestow  it  upon  you,  when 
you  ask  Him?  Think  you  all  the  millions  of  martyrs  naturally 
possessed  courage?  that  they  naturally  held  life  in  contempt? 
So  many  young  persons,  just  beginning  to  enjoy  it — so  many 
aged  ones,  accustomed  to  regret  that  it  is  so  near  its  end — 
so  many  children — so  many  mothers?  All  posses.sed  courage, 
because  courage  was  necessary,  and  they  relied  upon  God. 
Knowing  your  own  weakness,  and  the  duties  to  which  you 


THE   BETROTHED 


379 


were  called,  have  you  ever  thought  of  preparing  yourself  for 
the  difficult  circumstances  in  which  you  might  be  placed,  in 
which  you  actually  are  placed  at  present?  Ah!  if  for  so  many 
years  of  pastoral  labours  you  have  loved  your  flock  (and  how 
could  you  not  love  them?) — if  you  have  placed  them  in  your 
affections,  your  cares,  your  happiness,  courage  ought  not  to 
fail  you  in  the  moment  of  need:  love  is  intrepid.  Now,  surely, 
if  you  loved  those  who  have  been  committed  to  your  spiritual 
care,  those  whom  you  call  children,  when  you  saw  two  of 
them  threatened,  as  well  as  yourself,  ah,  surely!  as  the  weak- 
ness of  the  flesh  made  you  tremble  for  yourself,  so  love  would 
have  made  you  tremble  for  them.  You  would  feel  humbled 
for  your  former  fears,  as  the  effect  of  your  corrupt  nature;  you 
would  have  implored  strength  to  overcome  them,  to  expel 
them  as  a  temptation.  But  a  holy  and  noble  fear  for  others, 
for  your  children,  this  you  would  have  listened  to;  this  would 
have  given  you  no  peace;  this  would  have  incited — constrained 
you  to  think  and  do  all  you  could  to  avert  the  dangers  that 
threatened  them  ....  With  what  has  this  fear,  this  love,  in- 
spired you?  What  have  you  done  for  them?  What  have  you 
thought  for  them?  " 

And  he  ceased,  in  token  of  expectation. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AT  such  a  question,  Don  Abbondio,  who  had  been  study- 
/\  ing  to  find  some  reply  in  the  least  precise  terms  pos- 
/"■^  sible,  stood  without  uttering  a  word.  And,  to  speak 
the  truth,  even  we,  with  the  manuscript  before  us  and 
pen  in  hand,  having  nothing  to  contend  with  but  words,  nor 
anything  to  fear  but  the  criticisms  of  our  readers,  even  we,  I 
say,  feel  a  kind  of  repugnance  in  proceeding;  we  feel  some- 
what strange  in  thus  setting  forth,  with  so  little  trouble,  such 
admirable  precepts  of  fortitude  and  charity,  of  active  solicitude 
for  others,  and  unlimited  sacrifice  of  self.  But  remembering 
that  these  things  were  said  by  one  who  also  practised  them, 
we  will  confidently  proceed. 

"  You  give  me  no  answer!  "  resumed  the  Cardinal.  "Ah, 
if  you  had  done,  on  your  part,  what  charity  and  duty  required 
of  you,  however  things  had  turned  out,  you  would  now  have 
something  to  answer!  You  see,  then,  yourself  what  you  have 
done.  You  have  obeyed  the  voice  of  Iniquity,  unmindful  of 
the  requirements  of  duty.  You  have  obeyed  her  punctually: 
she  showed  herself  to  you  to  signify  her  desire;  but  she  wished 
to  remain  concealed  from  those  who  could  have  sheltered 
themselves  from  her  reach,  and  been  on  their  guard  against 
her;  she  did  not  wish  to  resort  to  arms,  she  desired  secrecy, 
to  mature  her  designs  of  treachery  and  force  at  leisure;  she 
required  of  you  transgression  and  silence.  You  have  trans- 
gressed, and  kept  silence.  I  ask  you,  now,  whether  you  have 
not  done  more? — you  will  tell  me  whether  it  be  true  that 
you  alleged  false  pretexts  for  your  refusal,  that  you  might  not 
reveal  the  true  motive."  And  he  paused  awhile,  awaiting  a 
reply. 

The  tell-tales  have  reported  this  too — thought  Don  Ab- 
bondio; but  as  he  gave  no  token  in  words  of  having  anything 
to  say,  the  Cardinal  continued:  "  If  it  be  true,  then,  that  you 
told  these  poor  people  what  was  not  the  case,  to  keep  them 
in  the  ignorance  and  darkness  in  which  iniquity  wished  them 
to  be  ....  I  must  believe  it,  then;  it  only  remains  for  me  to 

380 


THE   BETROTHED 


381 


blush  for  it  with  you,  and  to  hope  that  you  will  weep  for  it 
with  me!  See,  then,  to  what  this  solicitude  (good  God!  and 
but  just  now  you  adduced  it  as  a  justification!)  this  solicitude 
for  your  temporal  life  has  led  you!  It  has  led  you  .... 
repel  freely  these  words,  if  you  think  them  unjust;  take  them 
as  a  salutary  humiliation,  if  they  are  not  ....  it  has  led  you 
to  deceive  the  weak,  to  lie  to  your  own  children." 

Just  see  now  how  things  go! — thought  Don  Abbondio_ 
again  to  himself:  to  that  fiend — meaning  the  Unnamed — his 
arms  around  his  neck;  and  to  me,  for  a  half-lie,  uttered  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  saving  my  life,  all  this  fuss  and  noise.  But 
they  are  our  superiors;  they're  always  in  the  right.  It's  my 
ill  star  that  everybody  sets  upon  me;  even  saints. — And,  speak- 
ing aloud,  he  said:  *'  I  have  done  wrong;  I  see  that  I've  done 
wrong;  but  what  could  I  do  in  an  extremity  of  that  kind?" 

"  Do  you  still  asl^  this?  Have  not  I  told  you  already? 
Must  I  tell  you  again?  You  should  have  loved,  my  son;  loved 
and  prayed.  Then  you  would  have  felt  that  iniquity  may  in- 
deed have  threats  to  employ,  blows  to  bestow,  but  not  com- 
mands to  give;  you  would  have  united,  according  to  the  law 
of  God,  those  whom  man  washed  to  put  asunder;  you  would 
have  extended  toward  these  unhappy  innocents  the  ministry 
they  had  a  right  to  claim  from  you:  God  Himself  would  have 
been  surety  for  the  consequences,  because  you  had  followed 
His  will:  by  following  another's  you  have  come  in  as  an- 
swerable: and  for  what  consequences!  But  supposing  all 
human  resources  failed  you,  supposing  no  way  of  escape  was 
open,  when  you  looked  anxiously  around  you,  thought  about 
it,  sought  for  it?  Then  you  might  have  known,  that  when 
your  poor  children  were  married,  they  would  themselves  have 
provided  for  their  escape,  that  they  were  ready  to  flee  from 
the  face  of  their  powerful  enemy,  and  had  already  designed  a 
place  of  refuge.  But  even  without  this,  did  you  not  remember 
that  you  had  a  superior?  How  would  he  have  this  authority 
to  rebuke  you  for  having  been  wanting  in  the  duties  of  your 
office,  did  he  not  feel  himself  bound  to  assist  you  in  fulfilling 
them?  Why  did  you  not  think  of  acquainting  your  bishop 
with  the  impediment  that  infamous  violence  had  placed  in  the 
way  of  the  exercise  of  your  ministry?" 

The  very  advice  of  Perpetua! — thought  Don  Abbondio, 
pettishly,  who,  in  the  midst  of  this  conversation,  had  most  viv- 
idly before  his  eyes  the  images  of  the  bravoes,  and  the  thought 
that  Don  Rodrigo  was  still  alive  and  well,  and  that  he  would, 
some  day  or  other,  be  returning  in  glory  and  triumph,  and 
furious  with  revenge.     And  though  the  presence  of  so  high  a 


382  MANZONI 

dignitary,  together  with  his  countenance  and  language,  filled 
him  with  confusion,  and  inspired  him  with  fear;  yet  it  was  not 
such  fear  as  completely  to  subdue  him,  or  expel  the  idea  of  re- 
sistance: because  this  idea  was  accompanied  by  the  recollec- 
tion, that,  after  all,  the  Cardinal  employed  neither  musket,  nor 
sword,  nor  bravoes. 

"  Why  did  you  not  remember,"  pursued  the  bishop,  "  that 
if  there  were  no  other  retreat  open  to  these  betrayed  innocents, 
I  at  least  was  ready  to  receive  them,  and  put  them  in  safety, 
had  you  directed  them  to  me — the  desolate  to  a  bishop,  as  be- 
longing to  him,  as  a  precious  part,  I  don't  say,  of  his  charge, 
but  of  his  riches?  And  as  to  yourself,  I  should  have  become 
anxious  for  you;  I  should  not  have  slept  till  I  was  sure  that 
not  a  hair  of  your  head  would  be  injured.  Do  you  think  I 
had  not  the  means  of  securing  your  life?  Think  you,  that  he 
who  was  so  very  bold,  would  have  remitted  nothing  of  his 
boldness,  when  he  was  aware  that  his  plots  and  contrivances 
were  known  elsewhere,  were  known  to  me,  that  I  was  watching 
him,  and  was  resolved  to  use  all  the  means  within  my  power 
in  your  defence?  Didn't  you  know  that  if  men  too  often 
promise  more  than  they  can  perform,  so  they  not  unfrequently 
threaten  more  than  they  would  attempt  to  execute?  Didn't 
you  know  that  iniquity  depends  not  only  on  its  own  strength, 
but  often  also  on  the  fears  and  credulity  of  others?" 

Just  Perpetua's  arguments — again  thought  Don  Abbondio, 
never  reflecting  that  this  singular  concurrence  of  his  servant 
and  Federigo  Borromeo,  in  deciding  on  what  he  might  and 
should  have  done,  would  tell  very  much  against  him. 

**  But  you,"  pursued  the  Cardinal,  in  conclusion,  "  saw 
nothing,  and  would  see  nothing,  but  your  own  temporal  dan- 
ger; what  wonder  that  it  seemed  to  you  sufficient  to  outweigh 
every  other  consideration?  " 

"  It  was  because  I  myself  saw  those  terrible  faces,"  escaped 
from  Don  Abbondio  in  reply;  **  I  myself  heard  their  words. 
Your  illustrious  Lordship  can  talk  very  well;  but  you  ought 
to  be  in  a  poor  priest's  shoes,  and  find  yourself  brought  to  the 
point." 

No  sooner,  however,  had  he  uttered  these  words,  than  he 
bit  his  tongue  with  vexation ;  he  saw  that  he  had  allowed  him- 
self to  be  too  much  carried  away  by  petulance,  and  said  to 
himself — Now  comes  the  storm! — But  raising  his  eyes  doubt- 
fully, he  was  utterly  astonished  to  see  the  countenance  of  that 
man,  whom  he  never  could  succeed  in  divining  or  compre- 
hending, pass  from  the  solemn  air  of  authority  and  rebuke,  to 
a  sorrowful  and  pensive  gravity. 


THE   BETROTHED  383 


ti  >' 


Tis  too  true!"  said  Federigo;  "such  is  our  miserable 
and  terrible  condition.  We  must  rigorously  exact  from  others 
what  God  only  knows  whether  we  should  be  ready  to  yield:  we 
must  judge,  correct,  reprove;  and  God  knows  what  we  our- 
selves should  do  in  the  same  circumstances,  what  we  actually 
have  done  in  similar  ones!  But  woe  unto  me,  had  I  to  take 
my  own  weakness  as  the  measure  of  other  people's  duties,  or 
the  rule  of  my  own  teaching!  Yet  I  certainly  ought  to  give 
a  good  example,  as  well  as  good  instruction,  to  others,  and  not 
be  like  the  Pharisees,  who  '  lade  men  with  burdens  grievous 
to  be  borne,  while  they  themselves  touch  not  the  burden  with 
one  of  their  fingers.'  Well,  then,  my  son,  my  brother;  as  the 
errors  of  those  in  authority  are  often  better  known  to  others 
than  to  themselves;  if  you  are  aware  of  my  having,  from  pusil- 
lanimity, or  from  any  other  motive,  failed  in  any  part  of 
my  duty,  tell  me  of  it  candidly,  and  help  me  to  amend;  so  that 
where  example  has  been  wanting,  confession  at  least  may  sup- 
ply its  place.  Remonstrate  freely  with  me  on  my  weaknesses; 
and  then  my  w^ords  will  acquire  more  value  in  my  mouth,  be- 
cause you  will  feel  more  vividly  that  they  are  not  mine,  but  are 
the  words  of  Him  who  can  give  both  to  you  and  me  the  neces- 
sary strength  to  do  what  they  prescribe." 

Oh,  ;^'hat  a  holy  man!  but  what  a  tormentor! — thought 
Don  A^ondio — he  doesn't  even  spare  himself:  that  I  should 
examine,  interfere  with,  criticise,  and  even  accuse  himself! — 
He  then  said  aloud:  "  Oh,  my  Lord,  you  are  joking  with  me! 
Who  does  not  know  the  fortitude  of  mind,  the  intrepid  zeal  of 
your  illustrious  Lordship?"  And  in  his  heart  he  added — 
Even  too  much  so. 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  for  praise,  which  makes  me  tremble," 
said  Federigo ;  '*  for  God  knows  my  failings,  and  what  I  know 
of  them  myself  is  enough  to  confound  me;  but  I  wished  that 
we  should  humble  ourselves  together  before  Him,  that  we 
might  depend  upon  Him  together.  I  would,  for  your  own 
sake,  that  you  should  feel  how  your  conduct  has  been,  and 
your  language  still  is,  opposed  to  the  law  you  nevertheless 
preach,  and  according  to  which  you  will  be  judged." 

**  All  falls  upon  me,"  said  Don  Abbondio;  ''  but  these  peo- 
ple who  have  told  you  all  this,  didn't,  probably,  tell  you  too, 
of  their  having  introduced  themselves  treacherously  into  my 
house,  to  take  me  by  surprise,  and  to  contract  a  marriage  con- 
trary to  the  laws." 

"  They  did  tell  me,  my  son :  but  it  is  this  that  grieves,  that 
depresses  me,  to  see  you  still  anxious  to  excuse  yourself;  still 
thinking  to  excuse  yourself  by  accusing  others;  still  accusing 


I 

/ 


384  MANZONI 

others  of  what  ought  to  make  part  of  your  own  confession. 
Who  placed  them,  I  don't  say  under  the  necessity,  but  under 
the  temptation,  to  do  what  they  have  done?  Would  they  have 
sought  this  irregular  method,  had  not  the  legitimate  one  been 
closed  against  them?  Would  they  have  thought  of  snaring 
their  pastor,  had  they  been  received  to  his  arms,  assisted,  ad- 
vised by  him?  or  of  surprising  him,  had  he  not  concealed  him- 
self? And  do  you  lay  the  blame  upon  them?  And  are  you 
indignant,  because,  after  so  many  misfortunes — what  do  I  say? 
in  the  midst  of  misfortune — they  have  said  a  word  or  two,  to 
give  vent  to  their  sorrows,  to  their  and  your  pastor?  That 
the  appeals  of  the  oppressed,  and  the  complaints  of  the  af^icted, 
are  odious  to  the  world,  is  only  too  true;  but  we!  ....  But 
what  advantage  would  it  have  been  to  you,  had  they  remained 
silent?  Would  it  turn  to  your  profit  that  their  cause  should 
be  left  entirely  to  the  judgment  of  God?  Is  it  not  a  fresh 
reason  why  you  should  love  these  persons  (and  you  have  many 
already),  that  they  have  afforded  you  an  opportunity  of  hear- 
ing the  sincere  voice  of  your  pastor,  that  they  have  given  you 
the  means  of  knowing  more  clearly,  and  in  part  discharging, 
the  great  debt  you  owe  them?  Ah,  if  they  have  provoked, 
offended,  annoyed  you,  I  would  say  to  you  (and  need  I  say  it?), 
love  them  exactly  for  that  reason.  Love  them,  because  they 
have  sufifered,  because  they  still  suffer,  because  they  are  yours, 
because  they  are  weak,  because  you  have  need  of  pardon,  to 
obtain  which,  think  of  what  efficacy  their  prayer  may  be." 

Don  Abbondio  was  silent,  but  it  was  no  longer  an  uncon- 
vinced and  scornful  silence:  it  was  that  of  one  who  has  more 
things  to  think  about  than  to  say.  The  words  he  had  heard 
were  unexpected  consequences,  novel  applications,  of  a  doc- 
trine he  had  nevertheless  long  believed  in  his  heart,  without 
a  thought  of  disputing  it.  The  misfortunes  of  others,  from 
the  contemplation  of  which  his  fear  of  personal  misfortune  had 
hitherto  diverted  his  mind,  now  made  a  new  impression  upon 
him.  And  if  he  did  not  feel  all  the  contrition  which  the  ad- 
dress was  intended  to  produce  (for  this  same  fear  was  ever  at 
hand  to  execute  the  office  of  defensive  advocate),  yet  he  felt 
it  in  some  degree;  he  experienced  dissatisfaction  with  himself, 
a  kind  of  pity  for  others — a  mixture  of  compunction  and  shame. 
It  was,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  comparison,  like  the  crushed 
and  humid  wick  of  a  candle,  which,  on  being  presented  to 
the  flame  of  a  large  torch,  at  first  smokes,  spirts,  crackles,  and 
will  not  ignite;  but  it  lights  at  length,  and,  well  or  ill,  burns. 
He  would  have  accused  himself  bitterly,  he  would  even  have 
wept,  had  it  not  been  for  the  thought  of  Don  Rodrigo;  and,  as 


THE    BETROTHED 


385 


is  was,  betrayed  sufficient  emotion  to  convince  the  Cardinal 
that  his  words  had  not  been  entirely  without  effect. 

'*  Now,"  pursued  he,  ''  the  one  a  fugitive  from  his  home, 
the  other  on  the  point  of  abandoning  it,  both  with  too  good 
reasons  for  absenting  themselves,  and  without  a  probability  of 
ever  meeting  again  here,  even  if  God's  purposes  to  reunite 
them;  now,  alas!  they  have  too  little  need  of  you;  now  you 
have  no  opportunity  of  doing  them  any  service;  nor  can  our 
limited  foresight  predict  any  for  the  future.  But  who  knows 
whether  a  God  of  mercy  may  not  be  preparing  some  for  you? 
Ah!  suffer  them  not  to  escape!  Seek  them,  be  on  the  watch 
for  them;  beseech  Him  to  create  them  for  you." 

**  I  will  not  fail,  my  Lord,  I  will  not  fail,  I  assure  you,"  re- 
plied Don  Abbondio,  in  a  tone  that  showed  it  came  from  the 
heart. 

**  Ah  yes,  my  son,  yes!"  exclaimed  Federigo;  and  with  a 
dignity  full  of  affection,  he  concluded:  "Heaven  knows  how 
I  should  have  wished  to  hold  a  different  conversation  with  you. 
We  have  both  lived  long;  Heaven  knows  if  it  has  not  been 
painful  to  me  to  be  obliged  thus  to  grieve  your  gray  hairs  with 
reprimands;  how  much  more  gladly  I  would  have  shared  with 
you  our  common  cares  and  sorrows,  and  conversed  with  you 
on  the  blessed  hope  to  which  we  have  so  nearly  approached. 
God  grant  that  the  language  which  I  have  been  compelled  to 
use,  may  be  of  use  to  us  both.  You  would  not  wish  that  He 
should  call  me  to  account  at  the  last  day,  for  having  coun- 
tenanced you  in  a  course  of  conduct  in  which  you  have  so  un- 
happily fallen  short  of  your  duty.  Let  us  redeem  the  time; 
the  hour  of  midnight  is  at  hand;  the  Bridegroom  can  not  tarry; 
let  us,  therefore,  keep  our  lamps  burning.  Let  us  offer  our 
hearts,  miserable  and  empty  as  they  are,  to  God  that  He  may 
be  pleased  to  fill  them  with  that  charity  which  amends  the  past, 
which  is  a  pledge  of  the  future,  which  fears  and  trusts,  weeps 
and  rejoices,  with  true  wisdom;  which  becomes,  in  every  in- 
stance, the  virtue  of  which  we  stand  in  need." 

So  saying,  he  left  the  room,  followed  by  Don  Abbondio. 

Here  our  anonymous  author  informs  us,  that  this  was  not 
the  only  interview  between  these  two  persons,  nor  Lucia  the 
only  subject  of  these  interviews;  but  that  he  has  confined  him- 
self to  the  mention  of  this  one,  that  he  might  not  digress  too 
far  from  the  principal  object  of  his  narrative.  And,  for  the 
same  reason,  he  does  not  make  mention  of  other  notable 
things,  said  and  done  by  Federigo,  throughout  the  whole 
course  of  his  visitation;  or  of  his  liberality,  or  of  the  dissen- 
sions composed,  and  the  ancient  feuds  between  individuals, 
25 


386  MANZONI 

families,  and  entire  towns,  extinguished,  or  (which  was,  alas! 
far  more  frequent)  suppressed;  or  of  sundry  rufftans,  and  petty- 
tyrants,  tamed  either  for  life,  or  for  some  time — all  of  them 
things  which  occurred  more  or  less  in  every  part  of  the  dio- 
cese where  this  excellent  man  made  any  stay. 

He  then  goes  on  to  say  how,  next  morning,  Donna  Pras- 
sede  came,  according  to  agreement,  to  fetch  Lucia,  and  to  pay 
her  respects  to  the  Cardinal,  who  spoke  in  high  terms  of  the 
young  girl,  and  recommended  her  warmly  to  the  Signora. 
Lucia  parted  from  her  mother,  it  may  be  imagined  with  what 
tears,  left  the  cottage,  and  a  second  time  said  farewell  to  her 
native  village,  with  that  sense  of  doubly  bitter  sorrow  which  is 
felt  on  leaving  a  spot  which  was  once  dearly  loved  and  can 
never  be  so  again.  But  this  parting  from  her  mother  was  not 
the  last;  for  Donna  Prassede  had  announced  that  she  should 
still  reside  for  some  time  at  their  country  house,  which  was  not 
very  far  of¥;  and  Agnese  had  promised  her  daughter  to  go 
thither  to  give  and  receive  a  more  mournful  adieu. 

The  Cardinal  was  himself  just  starting  for  another  parish, 
when  the  curate  of  that  in  which  the  castle  of  the  Unnamed 
was  situated,  arrived,  and  requested  to  speak  to  him.  On 
being  admitted,  he  presented  a  packet  and  a  letter  from  that 
nobleman,  wherein  he  besought  Federigo  to  prevail  upon 
Lucia's  mother  to  accept  a  hundred  scudi  of  gold,  which  were 
contained  in  the  parcel,  to  serve  either  as  a  dowry  for  the 
young  girl,  or  for  any  other  use  which  the  two  women  might 
deem  more  suitable;  requesting  him  at  the  same  time  to  tell 
them,  that  if  ever,  on  any  occasion,  they  thought  he  could 
render  them  any  service,  the  poor  girl  knew  too  well  where  he 
lived;  and  that,  for  him,  this  would  be  one  of  the  most  desir- 
able events  that  could  happen.  The  Cardinal  immediately  sent 
for  Agnese,  who  listened  with  equal  pleasure  and  amazement 
to  the  courteous  message,  and  suffered  the  packet  to  be  put 
into  her  hand  without  much  scrupulous  ceremony.  *'  May 
God  reward  this  Signor  for  it,"  said  she;  ''and  will  your  illus- 
trious Lordship  thank  him  very  kindly?  And  don't  say  a 
word  about  it  to  anybody,  because  this  is  a  kind  of  country 
.  .  .  .  Excuse  me.  Sir;  I  know  very  well  that  a  gentleman  like 
you  won't  chatter  about  these  things;  but  ....  you  under- 
stand me." 

Home  she  went  as  quickly  as  possible;  shut  herself  up  in 
her  room,  unwrapped  the  parcel,  and,  however  prepared  by 
anticipation,  beheld  with  astonishment  so  many  of  those  coins 
all  together,  and  all  her  own,  of  which  she  had,  perhaps,  never 
seen  more  than  one  at  once  before,  and  that  but  seldom;  she 


THE   BETROTHED 


387 


counted  them  over,  and  then  had  some  trouble  in  putting  them 
together  again,  and  making  the  whole  hundred  stand  up  upon 
their  edges;  for  every  now  and  then,  they  would  jut  out,  and 
slide  from  under  her  inexpert  fingers;  at  length,  however,  she 
succeeded  in  rolling  them  up,  after  a  fashion,  put  them  in  a 
handkerchief,  so  as  to  make  quite  a  large  parcel,  and  wrapping 
a  piece  of  cord  several  times  around  it,  went  and  tucked  it 
under  a  corner  of  her  straw  mattress.  The  rest  of  the  day  was 
spent  in  castle-building,  devising  plans  for  the  future,  and 
longing  for  the  morrow.  After  going  to  bed,  she  lay  for  a 
long  time  awake,  with  the  thought  of  the  hundred  scudi  she 
had  beneath  her  to  keep  her  company;  and  when  asleep  she 
saw  them  in  her  dreams.  By  break  of  day  she  arose,  and  set 
off  in  good  time  toward  the  villa  where  her  daughter  was  re- 
siding. 

Though  Lucia's  extreme  reluctance  to  speak  of  her  vow 
was  in  no  degree  diminished,  she  had,  on  her  part,  resolved 
to  force  herself  to  open  her  mind  to  her  mother  in  this  inter- 
view, as  it  would  be  the  last  they  should  have  for  a  long  time. 

Scarcely  were  they  left  alone,  when  Agnese,  with  a  look 
full  of  animation,  and  at  the  same  time,  in  a  suppressed  tone 
of  voice,  as  if  there  w^ere  some  one  present  w^ho  she  was  afraid 
would  hear,  began,  ''I've  a  grand  thing  to  tell  you;"  and 
proceeded  to  relate  her  unexpected  good  fortune. 

"God  bless  this  Signor,"  said  Lucia;  "now  you  have 
enough  to  be  well  off  yourself,  and  you  can  also  do  good  to 
others." 

"Why!"  replied  Agnese,  "don't  you  see  how  many 
things  we  may  do  with  so  much  money?  Listen;  I  have  no- 
body but  you — but  you  two,  I  may  say;  for,  from  the  time 
that  he  began  to  address  you,  I  have  always  considered  Renzo 
as  my  son.  The  whole  depends  upon  whether  any  misfortune 
has  happened  to  him,  seeing  he  gives  no  sign  of  being  alive: 
but  oh!  surely  all  won't  go  ill  with  us?  We'll  hope  not,  we'll 
hope  not.  For  me,  I  should  have  liked  to  lay  my  bones  in  my 
native  country ;  but  now  that  you  can't  be  there,  thanks  to  that 
villain!  and  when  I  remember  that  he  is  near,  even  my  coun- 
try has  become  hateful  to  me;  and  with  you  two  I  can  be 
happy  anywhere.  I  was  always  inclined  to  go  with  you  both 
to  the  very  end  of  the  world,  and  have  ever  been  in  readiness; 
but  how  could  we  do  it  without  money?  Do  you  under- 
stand, now?  The  little  sum  that  the  poor  fellow  had  been 
scarcely  able  to  lay  by,  with  all  his  frugality,  justice  came,  and 
cleared  it  away;  but  the  Lord  has  sent  us  a  fortune  to  make 
up  for  it.     Well,  when  he  has  found  a  way  of  letting  us  know 


388 


MANZONI 


that  he's  alive,  where  he  is,  and  what  are  his  intentions,  I'll 
come  to  Milan  and  fetch  you;  ay,  I'll  come  myself.  Once 
upon  a  time,  I  should  have  thought  twice  about  such  a  thing, 
but  misfortunes  make  one  experienced  and  independent;  I've 
gone  as  far  as  Monza,  and  know  what  it  is  to  travel.  I'll  bring 
with  me  a  proper  companion — a  relation,  as  I  may  say — Ales- 
sio,  of  Maggianico ;  for,  to  say  the  truth,  a  fit  person  isn't  to 
be  found  in  the  country  at  all.  I'll  come  with  him;  we  will 
pay  the  expense,  and  ....  do  you  understand?  " 

But  perceiving  that,  instead  of  cheering  up,  Lucia  became 
more  and  more  dejected,  and  only  exhibited  emotion  unmixed 
with  pleasure,  she  stopped  abruptly  in  the  midst  of  her  speech, 
and  said:  ''But  what's  the  matter  with  you?  Don't  you 
see  it?" 

''Poor  mamma!"  exclaimed  Lucia,  throwing  her  arm 
round  her  neck,  and  burying  her  weeping  face  in  her  bosom. 

"  What  is  the  matter? "  again  asked  her  mother,  anx- 
iously. 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you  at  first,"  said  Lucia,  raising  her 
head,  and  composing  herself,  "  but  I  never  had  the  heart  to  do 
it:  pity  me." 

"  But  tell  me  then,  now." 

"  I  can  no  longer  be  that  poor  fellow's  wife!  " 

"How?  how?" 

With  head  hung  down,  a  beating  heart,  and  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks,  like  one  who  relates  something  which, 
though  a  misfortune,  is  unalterable,  Lucia  disclosed  her  vow; 
and,  at  the  same  time,  clasping  her  hands,  again  besought  her 
mother's  forgiveness  for  having  hitherto  concealed  it  from 
her;  she  implored  her  not  to  speak  of  such  a  thing  to  any 
living  being,  and  to  give  her  help,  and  facilitate  the  fulfilment 
of  what  she  had  promised. 

Agnese  remained  stupefied  with  consternation.  She 
would  have  been  angry  with  her  for  her  silence  to  her  mother, 
but  the  more  serious  thoughts  the  case  itself  aroused  stifled 
this  personal  vexation;  she  would  have  reproached  her  for 
the  act,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  that  would  be  a  murmuring 
against  Heaven;  the  more  so  as  Lucia  began  to  depict  more 
vividly  than  ever  the  horrors  of  that  night,  the  absolute  deso- 
lation, and  the  unhoped-for  deliverance,  between  which  the 
promise  had  been  so  expressly,  so  solemnly  made.  And  all 
the  while,  example  after  example  rose  to  the  recollection  of 
the  listener,  which  she  had  often  heard  repeated,  and  had  re- 
peated herself  to  her  daughter,  of  strange  and  terrible  pun- 
ishments following  upon  the  violation  of  a  vow.     After  a  few 


THE   BETROTHED  389 

moments  of  astonishment,  she  said,  "  And  what  will  you  do 
now?" 

*'  Now,"  replied  Lucia,  "  it  is  the  Lord  who  must  think  for 
us;  the  Lord,  and  the  Madonna.  I  have  placed  myself  in 
their  hands;  they  have  not  forsaken  me  hitherto;  they  will 
not  forsake  me  now,  that  ....  The  mercy  I  ask  for  myself 
of  the  Lord,  the  only  mercy,  after  the  salvation  of  my  soul,  is, 
that  He  will  let  me  rejoin  you;  and  He  will  grant  it  me — yes, 
I  feel  sure  He  will.  That  day  ....  in  that  carriage  .... 
Ah,  most  holy  Virgin!  ....  those  men!  ....  who  would 
have  told  me  that  they  were  bringing  me  to  this,  that  they 
would  bring  me  to  join  my  mother  the  next  day?  " 

"  But  not  to  tell  your  mother  of  it  at  once!  "  said  Agnese, 
with  a  kind  of  anger,  subdued  by  affection  and  pity. 

''Oh,  pity  me!  I  had  not  the  heart  ....  and  what  use 
would  it  have  been  to  grieve  you  so  long  ago?  " 

"And  Renzo?"  said  Agnese,  shaking  her  head. 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Lucia,  with  a  sudden  start,  "  I  must 
think  nothing  more  of  that  poor  fellow.  Long  ago  God  had 
not  destined  ....  See  how  it  appears  that  it  was  his  will  we 
should  be  kept  asunder.  And  who  knows?  ....  but  no,  no! 
the  Lord  will  have  preserved  him  from  danger,  and  will  make 
him  even  happier  without  me." 

"  But  now,  you  see,"  replied  Agnese,  "  if  it  were  not  that 
you  are  bound  for  ever,  for  all  the  rest,  if  no  misfortune  has 
happened  to  Renzo,  I  might  have  found  a  remedy  with  so 
much  money." 

"  But  should  we  have  got  this  money,"  replied  Lucia,  "  if 
I  had  not  passed  through  such  a  night?  ....  It  is  the  Lord 
who  has  ordered  everything  as  it  is;  His  will  be  done."  And 
here  her  voice  was  choked  with  tears. 

At  this  unexpected  argument,  Agnese  remained  silent 
and  thoughtful.  In  a  few  moments,  however,  Lucia,  sup- 
pressing her  sobs,  resumed:  "  Now  that  the  deed  is  done,  we 
must  submit  to  it  with  cheerfulness;  and  you,  my  poor  moth- 
er, you  can  help  me,  first  by  praying  to  the  Lord  for  your  un- 
happy daughter,  and  then  ....  that  poor  fellow  must  be 
told  of  it,  you  know.  Will  you  see  to  this,  and  do  me  also  this 
kindness ;  for  you  can  think  about  it.  When  you  can  find  out 
v/here  he  is,  get  some  one  to  write  to  him;  find  a  man  .... 
Oh,  your  cousin,  Alessio,  is  just  the  man,  a  prudent  and  kind 
person,  who  has  always  wished  us  well,  and  won't  gossip  and 
tell  tales ;  get  him  to  write  the  thing  just  as  it  is,  where  I  have 
been,  how  I  have  suffered,  and  that  God  has  willed  it  should 
be  thus;  and  that  he  must  set  his  heart  at  rest,  and  that  I  can 


390 


MANZONI 


never,  never  be  anybody's  wife!  And  tell  him  of  it  in  a  kind 
and  clever  way;  explain  to  him  that  I  have  promised,  that  I 
have  really  made  a  vow  ....  When  he  knows  that  I  have 
promised  the  Madonna  ....  he  has  always  been  good  and 
religious  ....  And  you,  the  moment  you  have  any  news  of 
him,  get  somebody  to  write  to  me;  let  me  know  that  he  is 
well,  and  then  ....  let  me  never  hear  anything  more." 

Agnese,  with  much  feeling,  assured  her  daughter  that 
everything  should  be  done  as  she  desired. 

''  There's  one  thing  more  I  have  to  say,"  resumed  Lucia; 
"  this  poor  fellow  ....  if  he  hadn't  had  the  misfortune  to 
think  of  me,  all  that  has  happened  to  him  never  would  have 
happened.  He's  a  wanderer  in  the  wide  world;  they've 
ruined  him  on  setting  out  in  life;  they've  carried  away  all  he 
had,  all  those  little  savings  he  had  made,  poor  fellow;  you 
know  why  ....  And  we  have  so  much  money!  Oh,  mother! 
as  the  Lord  has  sent  us  so  much  wealth,  and  you  look  upon 
this  poor  fellow,  true  enough,  as  belonging  to  you  ....  yes, 
as  your  son,  oh!  divide  it  between  you;  for,  most  assuredly, 
God  won't  let  us  want.  Look  out  for  the  opportunity  of  a 
safe  bearer,  and  send  it  him;  for  Heaven  knows  how  much  he 
wants  it!  " 

''Well,  what  do  you  think?"  replied  Agnese;  "I'll  do  it, 
indeed.  Poor  youth !  W^hy  do  you  think  I  was  so  glad  of  this 
money?  But!  ....  I  certainly  came  here  very  glad,  so  I 
did.  Well,  I'll  send  it  him;  poor  youth!  But  he,  too  .... 
I  know  what  I  would  say;  certainly,  money  gives  pleasure  to 
those  who  want  it;  but  it  isn't  this  that  will  make  him  rich." 

Lucia  thanked  her  mother  for  her  ready  and  liberal  assent, 
with  such  deep  gratitude  and  affection,  as  would  have  con- 
vinced an  observer  that  her  heart  still  secretly  clung  to  Renzo, 
more,  perhaps,  than  she  herself  believed. 

*'  And  what  shall  I,  a  poor  solitary  wom.an,  do  without 
you?"  said  Agnese,  weeping  in  her  turn. 

''  A.nd  I  without  you,  my  poor  mother !  and  in  a  stranger's 
house!  and  down  there  in  Milan!  ....  But  the  Lord  will 
be  with  us  both,  and  afterward  will  bring  us  together  again. 
Between  eight  and  nine  months  hence,  we  shall  see  each  other 
once  more  here;  and  by  that  time,  or  even  before  it,  I  hope, 
He  will  have  disposed  matters  to  our  comfort.  Leave  it  to 
Him.  I  will  ever,  ever  beseech  the  Madonna  for  this  mercy. 
If  I  had  anything  else  to  ofrer  her,  I  would  do  it;  but  she  is  so 
merciful,  that  she  will  obtain  it  for  me  as  a  gift." 

With  these,  and  other  similar  and  oft-repeated  words  of 
lamentation  and  comfort,  of  opposition  and  resignation,  of  in- 


THE   BETROTHED 


391 


terrogation  and  confident  assurance,  with  many  tears,  and 
after  long  and  renewed  embraces,  the  women  tore  themselves 
apart,  promising,  by  turns,  to  see  each  other  the  next  autumn, 
at  the  latest;  as  if  the  fulfilment  of  these  promises  depended 
upon  themselves,  and  as  people  always  do,  nevertheless,  in 
similar  cases. 

Meanwhile,  a  considerable  time  passed  away,  and  Agnese 
could  hear  no  tidings  of  Renzo.  Neither  letter  nor  message 
could  reach  her  from  him;  and  among  all  those  whom  she 
could  ask  from  Bergamo,  or  the  neighbourhood,  no  one  knew 
anything  at  all  about  him. 

Nor  was  she  the  only  one  who  made  inquiries  in  vain:  Car- 
dinal Federigo,  who  had  not  told  the  poor  woman  merely  out 
of  compliment  that  he  w^ould  seek  for  some  information  con- 
cerning the  unfortunate  man,  had,  in  fact,  immediately  written 
to  obtain  it.  Having  returned  to  Milan  after  his  visitation,  he 
received  a  reply,  in  which  he  was  informed  that  the  address  of 
the  person  he  had  named  could  not  be  ascertained;  that  he 
had  certainly  made  some  stay  in  such  a  place,  where  he  had 
given  no  occasion  for  any  talk  about  himself;  but  that,  one 
morning,  he  had  suddenly  disappeared;  that  a  relative  of  his, 
with  whom  he  had  lodged  there,  knew  not  what  had  become 
of  him,  and  could  oAly  repeat  certain  vague  and  contradictory 
rumours  which  w^ere  afloat,  that  the  youth  had  enlisted  for 
the  Levant,  had  passed  into  Germany,  or  had  perished  in  ford- 
ing a  river;  but  that  the  writer  would  not  fail  to  be  on  the 
watch,  and  if  any  better  authenticated  tidings  came  to  light, 
would  immediately  convey  them  to  his  most  illustrious  and 
very  reverend  Lordship. 

These,  and  various  other  reports,  at  length  spread  through- 
out the  territory  of  Lecco,  and  consequently  reached  the  ears 
of  Agnese.  The  poor  woman  did  her  utmost  to  discover 
which  was  the  true  account,  and  to  arrive  at  the  origin  of  this 
and  that  rumour;  but  she  never  succeeded  in  tracing  it  further 
than  they  say,  which,  even  at  the  present  day,  suffices  by  itself, 
to  attest  the  truth  of  facts.  Sometimes  she  had  scarcely  heard 
one  tale,  when  some  one  would  come  and  tell  her  not  a  word 
of  it  was  true ;  only,  however,  to  give  her  another  in  compen- 
sation, equally  strange  and  disastrous.  The  truth  is,  all  these 
rumours  were  alike  unfounded. 

The  Governor  of  Milan,  and  Captain-General  in  Italy,  Don 
Gonzalo  Fernandez  de  Cordova,  had  complained  bitterly  to 
the  Venetian  minister,  resident  at  Milan,  because  a  rogue  and 
public  robber,  a  promoter  of  plundering  and  massacre,  the 
famous  Lorenzo  Tramaglino,  who,  while  in  the  very  hands  of 


392 


MANZONI 


justice,  had  excited  an  insurrection  to  force  his  escape,  had 
been  received  and  harboured  in  the  Bergamascan  territory. 
The  minister  in  residence  rephed,  that  he  knew  nothing  about 
it;  he  would  write  to  Venice,  that  he  might  be  able  to  give  his 
Excellency  any  explanation  that  could  be  procured  on  the 
subject. 

It  was  a  maxim  of  Venetian  policy  to  second  and  cultivate 
the  inclination  of  Milanese  silk-weavers  to  emigrate  into  the 
Bergamascan  territory,  and,  with  this  object,  to  provide  many 
advantages  for  them,  more  especially  that  without  which  every 
other  was  worthless;  we  mean,  security.  As,  however,  when 
two  great  diplomatists  dispute,  in  however  trifling  a  matter, 
third  parties  must  always  have  a  taste  in  the  shape  of  conse- 
quences, Bortolo  was  warned,  in  confidence,  it  was  not  known 
by  whom,  that  Renzo  was  not  safe  in  that  neighbourhood,  and 
that  he  would  do  wisely  to  place  him  in  some  other  manufac- 
ture for  a  while,  even  under  a  false  name.  Bortolo  understood 
the  hint,  raised  no  objections,  explained  the  matter  to  his  cous- 
in, took  him  with  him  in  a  carriage,  conveyed  him  to  another 
new  silk-mill  about  fifteen  miles  ofif,  and  presented  him,  under 
the  name  of  Antonio  Rivolta,  to  the  owner,  who  was  a  native 
of  the  Milanese,  and  an  old  acquaintance.  This  person,  though 
the  times  were  so  bad,  needed  little  entreaty  to  receive  a  work- 
man who  was  recommended  to  him  as  honest  and  skilful  by 
an  intelligent  man  like  Bortolo.  On  trial  of  him  afterward, 
he  found  he  had  only  reason  to  congratulate  himself  on  the 
acquisition;  excepting  that,  at  first,  he  thought  the  youth 
must  be  naturally  rather  stupid,  because,  when  any  one  called 
Antonio,  he  generally  did  not  answer. 

Soon  after,  an  order  came  from  Venice,  in  peaceable  form, 
to  the  sheriff  of  Bergamo,  requiring  him  to  obtain  and  Jor- 
ward  information,  whether,  in  his  jurisdiction,  and  more  ex- 
pressly in  such  a  village,  such  an  individual  was  to  be  found. 
The  sheriff,  having  made  the  necessary  researches  in  the  man- 
ner he  saw  was  desired,  transmitted  a  reply  in  the  negative, 
which  was  transmitted  to  the  minister  at  Milan,  who  trans- 
mitted it  to  Don  Gonzalo  Fernandez  de  Cordova. 

There  were  not  wanting  inquisitive  people  who  tried  to 
learn  from  Bortolo  why  this  youth  was  no  longer  with  him, 
and  where  he  had  gone.  To  the  first  inquiry  he  replied, 
"  Nay,  he  has  disappeared!  "  but  afterward,  to  get  rid  of  the 
most  pertinacious  without  giving  them  a  suspicion  of  what 
was  really  the  case,  he  contrived  to  entertain  them,  some  with 
one,  some  with  another,  of  the  stories  we  have  before 
mentioned:    always,    however,    as    uncertain    reports,    which 


THE   BETROTHED 


393 


he  also  had  heard  related,  without  having  any  positive  ac- 
counts. 

But  when  inquiries  came  to  be  made  of  him  by  commission 
from  the  Cardinal,  without  mentioning  his  name,  and  with  a 
certain  show  of  importance  and  mystery,  merely  giving  him 
to  understand  that  it  was  in  the  name  of  a  great  personage, 
Bortolo  became  the  more  guarded,  and  deemed  it  the  more 
necessary  to  adhere  to  his  general  method  of  reply;  nay,  as  a 
great  personage  was  concerned,  he  gave  out  by  wholesale  all 
the  stories  which  he  had  published,  one  by  one,  of  his  various 
disasters. 

Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  such  a  person  as  Don  Gon- 
zalo  bore  any  personal  enmity  to  the  poor  mountain  silk- 
weaver;  that  informed,  perhaps,  of  his  irreverence  and  ill-lan- 
guage toward  his  Moorish  king,  chained  by  the  throat,  he 
would  have  wreaked  his  vengeance  upon  him;  or  that  he 
thought  him  so  dangerous  a  subject  as  to  be  worth  pursuing 
even  in  flight,  and  not  suffered  to  live  even  at  a  distance,  like 
the  Roman  senate  with  Hannibal.  Don  Gonzalo  had  too  many 
and  too  important  affairs  in  his  head  to  trouble  himself  about 
Renzo's  doings;  and  if  it  seems  that  he  did  trouble  himself 
about  them,  it  arose  from  a  singular  combination  of  circum- 
stances, by  which  the  poor  unfortunate  fellow,  without  desir- 
ing it,  and  without  being  aware  of  it,  either  then,  or  even  after- 
ward, found  himself  linked,  as  by  a  very  subtile  and  invisible 
chain,  to  these  same  too  many  and  too  important  affairs. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

IT  has  already  occurred  to  us  more  than  once  to  make  men- 
tion of  the  war  which  was  at  this  time  raging,  for  the  suc- 
cession to  the  states  of  the  Duke  Vincenzo  Gonzaga,  the 

second  of  that  name;  but  it  has  always  occurred  in  a  mo- 
ment of  great  haste,  so  that  w^e  have  never  been  able  to  give 
more  than  a  cursory  hint  of  it.  Now,  however,  for  the  due 
understanding  of  our  narrative,  a  more  particular  notice  of  it  is 
required.  They  are  matters  which  any  one  who  knows  any- 
thing of  history  must  be  acquainted  w^ith;  but  as,  from  a  just 
estimate  of  ourselves,  we  must  suppose  that  this  work  can  be 
read  by  none  but  the  ignorant,  it  will  not  be  amiss  that  we 
should  here  relate  as  much  as  will  sufifice  to  give  some  idea 
of  them  to  those  who  need  it. 

We  have  said  that  on  the  death  of  this  duke,  the  first  in  the 
line  of  succession.  Carlo  Gonzaga,  head  of  a  younger  branch 
now  established  in  France,  where  he  possessed  the  duchies  of 
Nevers  and  Rhetel,  had  entered  upon  the  possession  of  Man- 
tua, and  we  may  now  add,  of  Monf errat :  for  our  haste  made  us 
leave  this  name  on  the  point  of  the  pen.  The  Spanish  min- 
ister, who  was  resolved  at  any  compromise  (we  have  said  this 
too)  to  exclude  the  new  prince  from  these  two  fiefs,  and  who, 
to  exclude  him,  wanted  some  pretext  (because  wars  made 
without  any  pretext  would  be  unjust),  had  declared  himself 
upholder  of  the  claims  which  another  Gonzasra  Ferrante, 
Prince  of  Guastalla,  pretended  to  have  upon  Mantua;  and 
Carlo  Emanuele  I,  Duke  of  Savoy,  and  Margherita  Gonzaga, 
Duchess  Dowager  of  Lorraine,  upon  Monferrat.  Don  Gon- 
zalo,  who  was  of  the  family  of  the  great  commander,  and  bore 
his  name,  who  had  already  made  war  in  Flanders,  and  was  ex- 
tremely anxious  to  bring  one  into  Italy,  was  perhaps  the  per- 
son who  made  most  stir  that  this  might  be  undertaken:  and 
in  the  mean  while,  interpreting  the  intentions,  and  anticipat- 
ing the  orders,  of  the  above-named  minister,  he  concluded 
a  treaty  with  the  Duke  of  Savoy  for  the  invasion  and  partition 
of  Monferrat;  and  afterward  readily  obtained  a  ratification  of 

394 


THE   BETROTHED 


395 


it  from  the  Count  Duke,  by  persuading  him  that  the  acquisi- 
tion of  Casale  would  be  very  easy,  which  was  the  most  strong- 
ly defended  point  of  the  portion  assigned  to  the  King  of  Spain. 
He  protested,  however,  in  the  king's  name,  against  any  inten- 
tion of  occupying  the  country  further  than  under  the  name  of 
a  deposit,  until  the  sentence  of  the  Emperor  should  be  de- 
clared; who,  partly  from  the  influence  of  others,  partly  from 
private  motives  of  his  own,  had,  in  the  mean  while,  denied  the 
investiture  to  the  new  Duke,  and  intimated  to  him  that  he 
should  give  up  to  him  in  sequestration  the  controverted 
states:  afterward,  having  heard  the  different  sides,  he  would 
restore  them  to  him  who  had  the  best  claim.  To  these  condi- 
tions the  Duke  of  Nevers  would  not  consent. 

He  had,  however,  friends  of  some  eminence  in  the  Car- 
dinal de  Richelieu,  the  Venetian  noblemen,  and  the  Pope. 
But  the  first  of  these,  at  that  time  engaged  in  the  siege  of  La 
Rochelle,  and  in  a  war  with  England,  and  thw^arted  by  the 
party  of  the  queen-mother,  Maria  de'  Medici,  who,  for  certain 
reasons  of  her  own,  was  opposed  to  the  house  of  Nevers,  could 
give  nothing  but  hopes.  The  Venetians  would  not  stir,  nor 
even  declare  themselves  in  his  favour,  unless  a  French  army 
were  first  brought  into  Italy;  and  while  secretly  aiding  the 
Duke  as  they  best  could,  they  contented  themselves  with  put- 
ting of¥  the  Court  of  Madrid  and  the  Governor  of  Milan  with 
protests,  propositions,  and  peaceable  or  threatening  admoni- 
tions, according  to  circumstances.  Urban  VHI  recommend- 
ed Nevers  to  his  friends,  interceded  in  his  favour  with  his  ene- 
mies, and  designed  projects  of  accommodation;  but  would 
not  hear  a  word  of  sending  men  into  the  field. 

By  this  means  the  two  confederates  for  offensive  meas- 
ures were  enabled  the  more  securely  to  begin  their  concerted 
operations.  Carlo  Emanuele  invaded  Monferrat  from  his 
side;  Don  Gonzalo  willingly  laid  siege  to  Casale,  but  did  not 
find  in  the  undertaking  all  the  satisfaction  he  had  promised 
himself:  for  it  must  not  be  imagined  that  war  is  a  rose  with- 
out a  thorn.  The  Court  did  not  provide  him  with  nearly  all 
the  means  he  demanded;  his  ally,  on  the  contrary,  assisted 
h'm  too  much:  that  is  to  say,  after  having  taken  his  own  por- 
t'on,  he  went  on  to  take  that  which  was  assigned  to  the  King 
ol  Spain.  Don  Gonzalo  was  enraged  beyond  expression;  but 
roaring  that,  if  he  made  any  noise  about  it,  this  duke,  as  active 
in  intrigues  and  fickle  in  treaty  as  bold  and  valiant  in  arms, 
would  revolt  to  the  French,  he  was  obliged  to  shut  his  eyes  to 
it,  gnaw  the  bit,  and  put  on  a  satisfied  air.  The  siege,  besides, 
V  ent  on  badly,  being  protracted  to  a  great  length,  and  some- 


396 


MANZONI 


times  thrown  back,  owing  to  the  steady,  cautious,  and  resolute 
behaviour  of  the  besieged,  the  lack  of  sufficient  numbers  on 
the  part  of  the  besiegers,  and,  according  to  the  report  of  some 
historian,  the  many  false  steps  taken  by  Don  Gonzalo;  on 
which  point  we  leave  truth  to  choose  her  own  side,  being  in- 
clined even,  were  it  really  so,  to  consider  it  a  very  happy  cir- 
cumstance, if  it  were  the  cause  that  in  this  enterprise  there 
were  some  fewer  than  usual  slain,  beheaded,  or  wounded; 
and,  cccteris  paribus,  rather  fewer  tiles  injured  in  Casale.  In 
the  midst  of  these  perplexities,  the  news  of  the  sedition  at 
Milan  arrived,  to  the  scene  of  which  he  repaired  in  person. 

Here,  in  the  report  which  was  given  him,  mention  was  also 
made  of  the  rebellious  and  clamorous  flight  of  Renzo,  and  of 
the  real  or  supposed  doings  which  had  been  the  occasion  of 
his  arrest;  and  they  could  also  inform  him  that  this  person 
had  taken  refuge  in  the  territory  of  Bergamo.  This  circum- 
stance arrested  Don  Gonzalo's  attention.  He  had  been  in- 
formed from  another  quarter,  that  great  interest  had  been  felt  at 
Venice  in  the  insurrection  at  Milan;  that  they  had  supposed  he 
would  be  obliged  on  this  account  to  abandon  the  siege  Of 
Casale;  and  that  they  imagined  he  was  reduced  to  great  de- 
spondency and  perplexity  about  it:  the  more  so,  as  shortly 
after  this  event,  the  >-idings  had  arrived,  so  much  desired  by 
these  noblemen,  and  dreaded  by  himself,  of  the  surrender  of 
La  Rochelle.  Feeling  considerably  annoyed,  both  as  a  man 
and  a  politician,  that  they  should  entertain  sUch  an  opinion  of 
his  proceedings,  he  sought  every  opportunity  of  undeceiving 
them,  and  persuading  them,  by  induction,  that  he  had  lost 
none  of  his  former  boldness;  for  to  say  explicitly,  I  have  no 
fear,  is  just  to  say  nothing.  One  good  plan  is  to  show  dis- 
pleasure, to  complain,  and  to  expostulate:  accordingly,  the 
Venetian  ambassador  having  waited  upon  him  to  pay  his  re- 
spects, and  at  the  same  time  to  read  in  his  countenance  and 
behaviour  how  he  felt  within,  Don  Gonzalo,  after  having 
spoken  lightly  of  the  tumult,  like  a  man  who  had  already  pro- 
vided a  remedy  for  everything,  made  those  complaints  about 
Renzo  which  the  reader  already  knows;  as  he  is  also  acquaint- 
ed with  what  resulted  from  them  in  consequence.  From  that 
time  he  took  no  further  interest  in  an  afifair  of  so  little  impor- 
tance, which,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  was  terminated;  and 
when,  a  long  time  afterward,  the  reply  came  to  him  at  the 
camp  at  Casale,  whither  he  had  returned,  and  where  he  had 
very  dififerent  things  to  occupy  his  mind,  he  raised  and  threw 
[back  his  head,  like  a  silk-worm  searching  for  a  leaf;  reflected 
'for  a  moment,  to  recall  more  clearly  to  his  memory  a  fact  of 


THE   BETROTHED 


397 


which  he  only  retained  a  shadowy  idea;  remembered  the  cir- 
cumstance, had  a  vague  and  momentary  recollection  of  the 
person;  passed  on  to  something  else,  and  thought  no  more 
about  it. 

But  Renzo,  who,  from  the  little  which  he  had  darkly  com- 
prehended, was  far  from  supposing  so  benevolent  an  indif- 
ference, had,  for  a  time,  no  other  thought,  or  rather,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  no  other  care,  than  to  keep  himself  concealed. 
It  may  be  imagined  whether  he  did  not  ardently  long  to  send 
news  of  himself  to  the  women,  and  receive  some  from  them 
in  exchange.  But  there  were  two  great  difhculties  in  the  way. 
One  was,  that  he  also  would  have  been  forced  to  trust  to  an 
amanuensis,  for  the  poor  fellow  knew  not  how  to  write,  nor 
even  read,  in  the  broad  sense  of  the  word;  and  if,  when  asked 
the  question,  as  the  reader  may  perhaps  remember,  by  the  Doc- 
tor Azzecca-Garbugli,  he  replied  in  the  affirmative,  it  was  not, 
certainly,  a  boast,  a  mere  bravado,  as  they  say;  it  was  the 
truth,  that  he  could  manage  to  read  print,  when  he  could  take 
his  time  over  it;  writing,  however,  was  a  different  thing.  He 
would  be  obliged,  then,  to  make  a  third  party  the  depositary 
of  his  afifairs,  and  of  a  secret  so  jealously  guarded:  and  it  was 
not  so  easy  in  those  times  to  find  a  man  who  could  use  his  pen, 
and  in  whom  confidence  could  be  plac«^d,  particularly  in  a 
country  where  he  had  no  old  acquaintances.  The  other  diffi- 
culty was  to  find  a  bearer;  a  man  who  was  going  just  to  the 
place  he  wanted,  who  would  take  charge  of  the  letter,  and 
really  recollect  to  deliver  it;  all  these,  too,  qualifications  rather 
difficult  to  be  met  with  in  one  individual. 

At  length,  by  dint  of  searching  and  sounding,  he  found 
somebody  to  write  for  him;  but  ignorant  where  the  women 
were,  or  whether  they  were  still  at  Monza,  he  judged  it  better 
to  enclose  the  letter  directed  to  Agnese  under  cover  to  Father 
Cristoforo,  with  a  line  or  two  also  for  him.  The  writer  under- 
took the  charge,  moreover,  of  forwarding  the  packet,  and  de- 
livered it  to  one  who  would  pass  not  far  from  Pescarenico; 
this  person  left  it,  with  many  strict  charges,  at  an  inn  on  the 
road,  at  the  nearest  point  to  the  monastery;  and,  as  it  was 
directed  to  a  convent,  it  reached  this  destination;  but  what  be- 
came of  it  afterward  was  never  known.  Renzo,  receiving  no 
reply,  sent  off  a  second  letter,  nearly  like  the  first,  which  he 
enclosed  in  another  to  an  acquaintance  or  distant  relation  of 
his  at  Lecco.  He  sought  for  another  bearer,  and  found  one; 
and  this  time  the  letter  reached  the  person  to  whom  it  was 
addressed.  Agnese  posted  off  to  Maggianico,  had  it  read  and 
interpreted  to  her  by  her  cousin  Alessio;     concerted  with  him 


398  MANZONI 

a  reply,  which  he  put  down  in  writing  for  her,  and  found 
means  of  sending  it  to  Antonio  Rivolta  in  his  present  place  of 
abode:  all  this,  however,  not  quite  so  expeditiously  as  we 
have  recounted  it.  Renzo  received  the  reply,  and  in  time  sent 
an  answer  to  it.  In  short,  a  correspondence  was  set  on  foot 
between  the  two  parties,  neither  frequent  nor  regular,  but  still 
kept  up  by  starts,  and  at  intervals. 

To  form  some  idea,  however,  of  this  correspondence,  it  is 
necessary  to  know  a  little  how  such  things  went  on  in  those 
days — indeed,  how  they  go  on  now;  for  in  this  particular,  I 
believe,  there  is  little  or  no  variation. 

The  peasant  who  knows  not  how  to  write,  and  finds  him- 
self reduced  to  the  necessity  of  communicating  his  ideas  to 
the  absent,  has  recourse  to  one  who  understands  the  art, 
taking  him,  as  far  as  he  can,  from  among  those  of  his  own 
rank — for,  with  others,  he  is  either  shamefaced,  or  afraid  to 
trust  them;  he  informs  him,  with  more  or  less  order  and  per- 
spicuity, of  past  events;  and  in  the  same  manner,  describes 
to  him  the  thoughts  he  is  to  express.  The  man  of  letters  un- 
derstands part,  misunderstands  part,  gives  a  little  advice,  pro- 
poses some  variation,  says,  ''  Leave  it  to  me;  "  then  he  takes 
the  pen,  transfers  the  ideas  he  has  received,  as  he  best  can, 
from  speaking  to  writing,  corrects  it  in  his  own  way,  improves 
it,  puts  in  flourishes,  abbreviates,  or  even  omits,  according  as 
he  deems  most  suitable  for  his  subject;  for  so  it  is,  and  there 
is  no  help  for  it,  he  who  knows  more  than  his  neighbours  will 
not  be  a  passive  instrument  in  their  hands;  and  when  he  inter- 
feres in  other  people's  affairs,  he  wall  force  them  to  do  things 
his  own  w^ay.  In  addition  to  all  this,  it  is  not  always  quite  a 
matter  of  course  that  the  above-named  literate  himself  ex- 
presses all  that  he  intended;  nay,  sometimes  it  happens  just 
the  reverse,  as,  indeed,  it  does  even  to  us  who  write  for  the 
press.  When  the  letter  thus  completed  reaches  the  hands  of 
the  correspondent,  who  is  equally  unpractised  in  his  a,  b,  c,  he 
takes  it  to  another  learned  genius  of  that  tribe,  who  reads  and 
expounds  it  to  him.  Questions  arise  on  the  manner  of  under- 
standing it,  because  the  person  interested,  presuming  upon  his 
acquaintance  with  the  antecedent  circumstances,  asserts  that 
certain  words  mean  such  and  such  a  thing;  the  reader  resting 
upon  his  greater  experience  in  the  art  of  composition,  affirms 
that  they  mean  another.  At  last,  the  one  who  does  not  know, 
is  obliged  to  put  himself  into  the  hands  of  the  one  who  does, 
and  trusts  to  him  the  task  of  writing  a  reply;  which,  executed 
like  the  former  example,  is  liable  to  a  similar  style  of  interpre- 
tation.    If,  in  addition,  the  subject  of  the  correspondence  be  a 


THE   BETROTHED 


399 


rather  delicate  topic,  if  secret  matters  be  treated  of  in  it,  which 
it  is  desirable  should  not  be  understood  by  a  third  party,  in 
case  the  letter  should  go  astray;  if  with  this  view  there  be  a 
positive  intention  of  not  expressing  things  quite  clearly,  then, 
however  short  a  time  the  correspondence  is  kept  up,  the  par- 
ties invariably  finish  by  understanding  each  other  as  well  as 
the  two  schoolmen  who  had  disputed  for  four  hours  upon  ab- 
stract mutations;  not  to  take  our  simile  from  living  beings, 
lest  we  expose  ourselves  to  have  our  ears  boxed. 

Now,  the  case  of  our  two  correspondents  was  exactly 
what  we  have  described.  The  first  letter  written  in  Renzo's 
name,  contained  many  subjects.  Primarily,  besides  an  ac- 
count of  the  flight,  by  far  more  concise,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
more  confused,  than  that  which  we  have  given,  was  a  relation 
of  his  actual  circumstances,  from  which  both  Agnese  and  her 
interpreter  were  very  far  from  deriving  any  lucid  or  tolerably 
correct  idea.  Then  he  spoke  of  secret  intelligence,  change 
of  name,  his  being  in  safety,  but  still  requiring  concealment; 
things  in  themselves  not  very  familiar  to  their  understandings, 
and  related  in  the  letter  rather  enigmatically.  Then  followed 
warm  and  impassioned  inquiries  about  Lucia's  situation,  with 
dark  and  mournful  hints  of  the  rumours  which  had  reached 
even  his  ears.  There  were,  finally,  uncertain  and  distant  hopes 
and  plans  in  reference  to  the  future;  and  for  the  present  prom- 
ises and  entreaties  to  keep  their  plighted  faith,  not  to  lose  pa- 
tience or  courage,  and  to  wait  for  better  days. 

Some  time  passed  away,  and  Agnese  found  a  trusty  mes- 
senger to  convey  an  answer  to  Renzo,  with  the  fifty  scudi 
assigned  to  him  by  Lucia.  At  the  sight  of  so  much  gold,  he 
knew  not  what  to  think ;  and,  with  a  mind  agitated  by  wonder 
and  suspense,  which  left  no  room  for  gratification,  he  set  off 
in  search  of  his  amanuensis,  to  make  him  interpret  the  letter, 
and  find  the  key  to  so  strange  a  mystery. 

Agnese's  scribe,  after  lamenting,  in  the  letter,  the  want  of 
perspicuity  in  Renzo's  epistle,  went  on  to  describe,  in  a  way 
at  least  quite  as  much  to  be  lamented,  the  tremendous  history 
of  that  person  (so  he  expressed  himself) ;  and  here  he  account- 
ed for  the  fifty  scudi;  then  he  went  on  to  speak  of  the  vow, 
employing  much  circumlocution  in  the  expression  of  it,  but 
adding,  in  more  direct  and  explicit  terms,  the  advice  to  set  his 
heart  at  rest,  and  think  no  more  about  it. 

Renzo  very  nearly  quarrelled  with  the  reader;  he  trembled 
shuddered,  became  enraged  with  what  he  had  understood,  and 
with  what  he  could  not  understand.  Three  or  four  times  did 
he  make  him  read  over  the  melancholy  writing,  now  compre- 


400 


MANZONI 


hending  better,  now  finding  what  had  at  first  appeared  clear, 
more  and  more  incomprehensible.  And,  in  this  fervour  of 
passion,  he  insisted  upon  his  amanuensis  immediately  taking 
pen  in  hand,  and  writing  a  reply.  After  the  strongest  expres- 
sions imaginable  of  pity  and  horror  at  Lucia's  circumstances 
— "  Write,"  pursued  he,  as  he  dictated  to  his  secretary,  "  that 
I  won't  set  my  heart  at  rest,  and  that  I  never  will;  and  that 
this  is  not  advice  to  be  giving  to  a  lad  like  me;  and  that  I 
won't  touch  the  money;  that  I'll  put  it  by,  and  keep  it  for  the 
young  girl's  dowry;  that  she  already  belongs  to  me;  and  that 
I  know  nothing  about  a  vow;  and  that  I  have  often  heard  say 
that  the  Madonna  interests  herself  to  help  the  afflicted,  and  ob- 
tain favours  for  them;  but  that  she  encourages  them  to  de- 
spise and  break  their  word,  I  never  heard;  and  that  this  vow 
can't  hold  good ;  and  that  with  this  money  we  have  enough  to 
keep  house  here;  and  that  if  I  am  somewhat  in  difficulties 
now,  it's  only  a  storm  which  will  quickly  pass  over;"  and 
other  similar  things.  Agnese  received  this  letter  also,  and 
replied  to  it;  and  the  correspondence  continued  in  the  man- 
ner we  have  described. 

Lucia  felt  greatly  relieved  when  her  mother  had  contrived, 
by  some  means  or  other,  to  let  her  know  that  Renzo  was  alive, 
safe,  and  acquainted  with  her  vow,  and  desired  nothing  more 
than  that  he  should  forget  her;  or,  to  express  it  more  exactly, 
that  he  should  try  to  forget  her.  She,  on  her  part,  made  a 
similar  resolution  a  hundred  times  a  day  with  respect  to  him; 
and  employed,  too,  every  means  she  could  think  of  to  put  it 
into  effect.  She  continued  to  work  indefatigably  with  her 
needle,  trying  to  apply  her  whole  mind  to  it;  and  when  Renzo's 
image  presented  itself  to  her  view,  would  begin  to  repeat  or 
chant  some  prayers  to  herself.  But  that  image,  just  as  if  it 
were  actuated  by  pure  malice,  did  not  generally  come  so  open- 
ly; it  introduced  itself  stealthily  behind  others,  so  that  the 
mind  might  not  be  aware  of  having  harboured  it,  till  after  it 
had  been  there  for  some  time.  Lucia's  thoughts  were  often 
with  her  mother;  how  should  it  have  been  otherwise?  and  the 
ideal  Renzo  would  gently  creep  in  as  a  third  party,  as  the  real 
person  had  so  often  done.  So  with  everybody,  in  every  place, 
in  every  remembrance  of  the  past,  he  never  failed  to  introduce 
himself.  And  if  the  poor  girl  allowed  herself  sometimes  to 
penetrate  in  fancy  into  the  obscurity  of  the  future,  there,  too, 
he  would  appear,  if  it  were  only  to  say:  I,  ten  to  one,  shall  not 
be  there.  However,  if  not  to  think  of  him  at  all  were  a  hope- 
less undertaking,  yet  Lucia  succeeded  up  to  a  certain  point,  in 
thinking  less  about  him,  and  less  intensely  than  her  heart  would 


THE   BETROTHED 


401 


have  wished.  She  would  even  have  succeeded  better,  had  she 
been  alone  in  desiring  to  do  so.  But  there  was  Donna  Pras- 
sede,  who,  bent,  on  her  part,  upon  banishing  the  youth  from 
her  thoughts,  had  found  no  better  expedient  than  constantly 
talking  about  him.  "  Well,"  she  would  say,  ''  have  you  given 
up  thinking  of  him?  " 

'*  I  am  thinking  of  nobody,"  replied  Lucia. 

Donna  Prassede,  however,  not  to  be  appeased  by  so  eva- 
sive an  answer,  replied  that  there  must  be  deeds,  not  words; 
and  enlarged  upon  the  usual  practices  of  young  girls,  "  who," 
said  she,  '*  when  they  have  set  their  hearts  upon  a  dissolute 
fellow  (and  it  is  just  to  such  they  have  a  leaning),  won't  con- 
sent to  be  separated  from  them.  An  honest  and  rational  con- 
tract to  a  worthy  man,  a  well-tried  character,  which,  by  some 
accident,  happens  to  be  frustrated — they  are  quickly  resigned; 
but  let  it  be  a  villain,  and  it  is  an  incurable  wound."  And  then 
she  commenced  a  panegyric  upon  the  poor  absentee,  the  rascal 
who  had  come  to  Milan  to  plunder  the  town,  and  massacre 
the  inhabitants;  and  tried  to  make  Lucia  confess  all  the  knav- 
ish tricks  he  had  played  in  his  own  country. 

Lucia,  with  a  voice  tremulous  with  shame,  sorrow,  and 
such  indignation  as  could  find  place  in  her  gentle  breast  and 
humble  condition,  affirmed  and  testified  that  the  poor  fellow 
had  done  nothing  in  his  country  to  give  occasion  for  any- 
thing but  good  to  be  said  of  him;  "she  wished,"  she  said, 
"  that  some  one  were  present  from  his  neighbourhood,  that  the 
lady  might  hear  his  testimony."  Even  on  his  adventures  at 
Milan,  the  particulars  of  which  she  could  not  learn,  she  de- 
fended him  merely  from  the  knowledge  she  had  had  of  him 
and  his  behaviour  from  his  very  childhood.  She  defended 
him,  or  intended  to  defend  him,  from  the  simple  duty  of  char- 
ity, from  her  love  of  truth,  and,  to  use  just  the  expression  by 
which  she  described  her  feelings  to  herself,  as  her  neighbour. 
But  Donna  Prassede  drew  fresh  arguments  from  these  apolo- 
gies, to  convince  Lucia  that  she  had  quite  lost  her  heart  after 
that  man.  And,  to  say  the  truth,  in  those  moments  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say  how  the  matter  stood.  The  disgraceful  picture  the 
old  lady  drew  of  the  poor  youth,  revived,  from  opposition, 
more  vividly  and  distinctly  than  ever  in  the  mind  of  the  young 
girl,  the  idea  which  long  habit  had  established  there;  the  recol- 
lections she  had  stifled  by  force,  returned  in  crowds  upon  her; 
aversion  and  contempt  recalled  all  her  old  motives  of  esteem 
and  sympathy,  and  blind  and  violent  hatred  only  excited 
stronger  feelings  of  pity.  With  these  feelings,  who  can  say 
how  much  there  might  or  might  not  be  of  another  affection 
26 


402 


MANZONI 


which  follows  upon  them,  and  introduces  itself  so  easily  into 
the  mind;  let  it  be  imagined  what  it  would  do  in  one  whence 
it  was  attempted  to  eject  it  by  force.  However  it  may  be,  the 
conversation,  on  Lucia's  side,  was  never  carried  to  any  great 
length,  for  words  were  very  soon  resolved  into  tears. 

Had  Donna  Prassede  been  induced  to  treat  her  in  this  way 
from  some  inveterate  hatred  toward  her,  these  tears  might, 
perhaps,  have  vanquished  and  silenced  her;  but  as  she  spoke 
with  the  intention  of  doing  good,  she  went  on  without  allow- 
ing herself  to  be  moved  by  them,  as  groans  and  imploring  cries 
may  arrest  the  weapons  of  an  enemy,  but  not  the  instrument  of 
the  surgeon.  Having,  however,  discharged  her  duty  for  that 
time,  she  would  turn  from  reproaches  and  denunciations  to  ex- 
hortation and  advice,  sweetened  also  by  a  Httle  praise;  thus 
designing  to  temper  the  bitter  with  the  sweet,  the  better  to  ob- 
tain her  purpose,  by  working  upon  the  heart  under  every  state 
of  feeling.  These  quarrels,  however  (which  had  always  nearly 
the  same  beginning,  middle,  and  end),  left  no  resentment,  prop- 
erly speaking,  in  the  good  Lucia's  heart  against  the  harsh  ser- 
monizer,  who,  after  all,  treated  her,  in  general,  very  kindly; 
and  even  in  this  instance,  evinced  a  good  intention.  Yet  they 
left  her  in  such  agitation,  wath  such  a  tumult  of  thoughts  and 
affections,  that  it  required  no  little  time,  and  much  effort,  to  re- 
gain her  former  degree  of  calmness. 

It  was  w^ell  for  her  that  she  was  not  the  only  one  to  whom 
Donna  Prassede  had  to  do  good;  for,  by  this  means,  these  dis- 
putes could  not  occur  so  frequently.  Besides  the  rest  of  the 
family,  all  of  whom  were  persons  more  or  less  needing  amend- 
ment and  guidance — besides  all  the  other  occasions  which  of- 
fered themselves  to  her,  or  she  contrived  to  find,  of  extending 
the  same  kind  office,  of  her  ow^n  free  wall,  to  many  to  wdiom 
she  was  under  no  obligations;  she  had  also  five  daughters, 
none  of  whom  were  at  home,  but  who  gave  her  much  more  to 
think  about  than  if  they  had  been.  Three  of  these  were  nuns, 
two  w^ere  married:  hence  Donna  Prassede  naturally  found  her- 
self with  three  monasteries  and  two  houses  to  superintend;  a 
vast  and  complicated  undertaking,  and  the  more  arduous,  be- 
cause two  husbands,  backed  by  fathers,  mothers,  and  brothers; 
three  abbesses,  supported  by  other  dignitaries,  and  by  many 
nuns,  W'Ould  not  accept  her  superintendence.  It  was  a  com- 
plete w^arfare,  alias  five  warfares,  concealed,  and  even  courte- 
ous, up  to  a  certain  point,  but  ever  active,  ever  vigilant.  There 
w'as  in  every  one  of  these  places  a  continued  watchfulness  to 
avoid  her  solicitude,  to  close  the  door  against  her  counsels,  to 
elude  her  inquiries,  and  to  keep  her  in  the  dark,  as  far  as  pos- 


THE   BETROTHED  403 

sible,  on  every  undertaking.  We  do  not  mention  the  resist- 
ance, the  difficulties  she  encountered  in  the  management  of 
other  still  more  extraneous  affairs;  it  is  well  known  that  one 
must  generally  do  good  to  men  by  force.  The  place  where 
her  zeal  could  best  exercise  itself,  and  have  full  play,  was  in 
her  own  house:  here  everybody  was  subject  in  everything, 
and  for  everything,  to  her  authority,  saving  Don  Ferrante, 
with  whom  things  went  on  in  a  manner  entirely  peculiar. 

A  man  of  a  studious  turn,  he  neither  loved  to  command  nor 
obey.  In  all  household  matters,  his  wife  was  the  mistress,  with 
his  free  consent;  but  he  would  not  submit  to  be  her  slave. 
And  if,  when  requested,  he  occasionally  lent  her  the  assistance 
of  his  pen,  it  was  because  it  suited  his  taste;  and  after  all,  he 
knew  how  to  say  no,  when  he  was  not  convinced  of  what  she 
wished  him  to  write.  *'  Use  your  own  sense,"  he  would  say, 
in  such  cases;  "do  it  yourself,  since  it  seems  so  clear  to  you." 
Donna  Prassede,  after  vainly  endeavouring  for  some  time  to 
induce  him  to  recant,  and  do  what  she  wanted,  would  be 
obliged  to  content  herself  with  murmuring  frequently  against 
him,  with  calling  him  one  who  hated  trouble,  a  man  who 
would  have  his  own  way,  and  a  scholar;  a  title  which,  though 
pronounced  with  contempt,  was  generally  mixed  with  a  little 
complacency. 

Don  Ferrante  passed  many  hours  in  his  study,  where  he 
had  a  considerable  collection  of  books,  scarcely  less  than  three 
hundred  volumes:  all  of  them  choice  works,  and  the  most 
highly  esteemed  on  their  numerous  several  subjects,  in  each 
of  which  he  was  more  or  less  versed.  In  astrology,  he  was 
deservedly  considered  as  more  than  a  dilettante;  for  he  not 
only  possessed  the  generical  notions  and  common  vocabulary 
of  influences,  aspects,  and  conjunctions;  but  he  knew  how  to 
talk  very  aptly,  and  as  it  were  ex  cathedra,  of  the  twelve  houses 
of  the  heavens,  of  the  great  circles,  of  lucid  and  obscure  de- 
grees, of  exaltation  and  dejection,  of  transitions  and  revolutions 
— in  short,  of  the  most  assured  and  most  recondite  principles 
of  the  science.  And  it  was  for  perhaps  twenty  years  that  he 
maintained,  in  long  and  frequent  disputes,  the  system  of  Car- 
dano  against  another  learned  man  who  was  staunchly  attached 
to  that  of  Alcabizio,  from  mere  obstinacy,  as  Don  Ferrante 
said;  who,  readily  acknowledging  the  superiority  of  the  an- 
cients, could  not,  however,  endure  that  unwillingness  to  yield 
to  the  moderns,  even  when  they  evidently  have  reason  on  their 
side.  Hi  was  also  more  than  indifferently  acquainted  with 
the  history  of  the  science;  he  could,  on  an  occasion,  quote  the 
most  celebrated  predictions  which  had  been  verified,  and  rea- 


^04  MANZONI 

son  clearly  and  learnedly  on  other  celebrated  predictions  which 
had  failed,  showing  that  the  fault  was  not  in  the  science,  but  in 
those  who  knew  not  how  to  apply  it. 

He  had  learnt  as  much  of  ancient  philosophy  as  might  have 
sufficed  him,  but  still  went  on  acquiring  more  from  the  study 
of  Diogenes  Laertius.  As,  however,  these  systems,  how  beau- 
tiful soever  they  may  be,  can  not  all  be  held  at  once;  and  so,  to 
be  a  philosopher,  it  is  necessary  to  choose  an  author,  so  Don 
Ferrante  had  chosen  Aristotle,  who,  he  used  to  say,  was  neither 
ancient  nor  modern;  he  was  the  philosopher,  and  nothing 
more.  He  possessed  also  various  works  of  the  wisest  and 
most  ingenious  disciples  of  that  school  among  the  moderns: 
those  of  its  impugners  he  would  never  read,  not  to  throw  away 
time,  as  he  said;  nor  buy,  not  to  throw  away  money.  Solely, 
by  way  of  exception,  did  he  find  room  in  his  library  for  those 
celebrated  two-and-twenty  volumes  De  Subtilitate,  and  for 
some  other  anti-peripatetic  work  of  Cardano's,  in  consideration 
of  his  value  in  astrology.  He  said,  that  he  who  could  write 
the  treatise  De  Restitutione  Temporum  et  Motuum  Coelestium, 
and  the  book  Duodecim  Geniturarum,  deserved  to  be  listened 
to  even  when  he  erred;  that  the  great  defect  of  this  mian  was, 
that  he  had  too  much  talent;  and  that  no  one  could  conceive 
what  he  might  have  arrived  at,  even  in  philosophy,  had  he  kept 
himself  in  the  right  way.  In  short,  although,  in  the  judgment 
of  the  learned,  Don  Ferrante  passed  for  a  consummate  peri- 
patetic, yet  he  did  not  deem  that  he  knew  enough  about  it 
himself;  and  more  than  once  he  was  obHged  to  confess,  with 
great  modesty,  that  essence,  universals,  the  soul  of  the  world, 
and  the  nature  of  things,  were  not  so  very  clear  as  might  be 
imagined. 

He  had  made  a  recreation  rather  than  a  study  of  natural 
philosophy;  the  very  works  of  Aristotle  on  this  subject  he  had 
rather  read  than  studied :  yet,  with  this  slight  perusal,  with  the 
notices  incidentally  gathered  from  treatises  on  general  philoso- 
phy, with  a  few  cursory  glances  at  the  Magia  Naturale  of  Porta, 
at  the  three  histories,  Lapidum,  Animalium,  Plantarum,  of 
Cardano,  at  the  treatise  on  herbs,  plants,  and  animals,  by  Al- 
bert Magnus,  and  a  few  other  works  of  less  note,  he  could  en- 
tertain a  party  of  learned  men,  for  a  while,  with  dissertations  on 
the  most  wonderful  virtues  and  most  remarkable  curiosities  of 
many  medicinal  herbs;  he  could  minutely  describe  the  forms 
and  habits  of  sirens  and  the  solitary  phoenix;  and  explain  how 
the  salamander  exists  in  the  fire  without  burning;  how  the 
remora,  that  diminutive  fish,  has  strength  and  ability  com- 
pletely to  arrest  a  ship  of  any  size  in  the  high  seas;  how  drops 


THE   BETROTHED 


405 


of  dew  become  pearls  in  the  shell;  how  the  chameleon  feeds 
on  air;  how  ice,  by  being  gradually  hardened,  is  formed  into 
crystal,  in  the  course  of  time;  with  many  other  of  the  most 
wonderful  secrets  of  nature. 

Into  those  of  magic  and  witchcraft  he  had  penetrated  still 
more  deeply,  as  it  was  a  science,  says  our  anonymous  author, 
much  more  necessary  and  more  in  vogue  in  those  days,  in 
which  the  facts  were  of  far  higher  importance,  and  it  was  more 
within  reach  to  verify  them.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  he 
had  no  other  object  in  view  in  such  a  study,  than  to  inform 
himself,  and  to  become  acquainted  with  the  very  worst  arts 
of  the  sorcerers,  in  order  that  he  might  guard  against  them  and 
defend  himself.  And,  by  the  guidance  principally  of  the  great 
Martino  Delrio  (a  leader  of  the  science),  he  was  capable  of  dis- 
coursing ex  professo  upon  the  fascination  of  love,  the  fascina- 
tion of  sleep,  the  fascination  of  hatred,  and  the  infinite  varieties 
of  these  three  principal  genuses  of  enchantment,  which  are  only 
too  often,  again  says  our  anonymous  author,  beheld  in  prac- 
tice at  the  present  day,  attended  by  such  lamentable  effects. 

Not  less  vast  and  profound  was  his  knowledge  of  history, 
particularly  universal  history,  in  which  his  authors  were  Tar- 
cagnota,  Dolce,  Bugatti,  Campana,  and  Guazzo;  in  short,  all 
the  most  highly  esteemed. 

*'  But  what  is  history,"  said  Don  Ferrante,  frequently, 
"without  politics? — A  guide  who  walks  on  and  on,  with  no 
one  following  to  learn  the  road,  and  who  consequently  throws 
away  his  steps;  as  politics  without  history  is  one  who  walks 
without  a  guide."  There  was  therefore  a  place  assigned  to  sta- 
tistics on  his  shelves;  where,  among  many  of  humbler  rank 
and  less  renown,  appeared,  in  all  their  glory,  Bodino,  Caval- 
canti,  Sansovino,  Paruta,  and  Boccalini.  There  were  two 
books,  however,  which  Don  Ferrante  infinitely  preferred  above 
all  others  on  this  subject;  two  which,  up  to  a  certain  time,  he 
used  to  call  the  first,  without  ever  being  able  to  decide  to  which 
of  the  two  this  rank  should  exclusively  belong:  one  was  the 
Principe  and  Discorsi  of  the  celebrated  Florentine  secretary; 
"  a  great  rascal,  certainly,"  said  Don  Ferrante,  "  but  pro- 
found :  "  the  other,  the  Ragion  di  Stato  of  the  no  less  cele- 
brated Giovanni  Botero;  "an  honest  man,  certainly,"  said  he 
again,  "  but  shrewd."  Shortly  after,  however,  just  at  the  pe- 
riod which  our  story  embraces,  a  work  came  to  light  which 
terminated  the  question  of  pre-eminence,  by  surpassing  the 
works  of  even  these  two  Matadores,  said  Don  Ferrante;  a 
book  in  which  was  enclosed  and  condensed  every  trick  of  the 
system,  that  it  might  be  known,  and  every  virtue,  that  it  might 


4o6 


MANZONI 


be  practised;  a  book  of  small  dimensions,  but  all  of  gold;  in 
one  word,  the  Statista  Regnante  of  Don  Valeriano  Castiglione, 
that  most  celebrated  man,  of  whom  it  might  be  said  that  the 
greatest  scholars  rivalled  each  other  in  sounding  his  praises, 
and  the  greatest  personages  in  trying  to  rob  him  of  them;  that 
man,  whom  Pope  Urban  VIII  honoured,  as  is  well  known, 
wdth  magnificent  encomiums;  whom  the  Cardinal  Borghese 
and  the  Viceroy  of  Naples,  Don  Pietro  di  Toledo,  en- 
treated to  relate — one  the  doings  of  Pope  Paul  V,  the  other 
the  wars  of  his  Catholic  Majesty  in  Italy,  and  both  in 
vain;  that  man,  whom  Louis  XIII,  King  of  France,  at  the 
suggestion  of  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,  nominated  his  historiog- 
rapher; on  whom  Duke  Carlo  Emanuele,  of  Savoy,  conferred 
the  same  office;  in  praise  of  whom,  not  to  mention  other  lofty 
testimonials,  the  Duchess  Cristina,  daughter  of  the  most 
Christian  King  Henry  IV,  could,  in  a  diploma,  among  many 
other  titles,  enumerate  "  the  certainty  of  the  reputation  he  is 
obtaining  in  Italy  of  being  the  first  writer  of  our  times." 

But  if,  in  all  the  above-mentioned  sciences,  Don  Ferrante 
might  be  considered  a  learned  man,  one  there  w^as  in  which  he 
merited  and  enjoyed  the  title  of  Professor — the  science  of  chiv- 
alry. Not  only  did  he  argue  on  it  in  a  really  masterly  man- 
ner, but,  frequently  requested  to  interfere  in  affairs  of  honour, 
always  gave  some  decision.  He  had  in  his  library,  and  one 
may  say,  indeed,  in  his  head,  the  works  of  the  most  renowned 
writers  on  this  subject:  Paris  del  Pozzo,  Fausto  da  Longiano, 
Urrea,  Muzio,  Romei,  Albergato,  the  first  and  second  Forno 
of  Torquato  Tasso,  of  whose  other  works,  Jerusalem  Deliv- 
ered, as  well  as  Jerusalem  Taken,  he  had  ever  in  readiness,  and 
could  quote  from  memory,  on  occasion,  all  the  passages  which 
might  serve  as  a  text  on  the  subject  of  chivalry.  The  author, 
however,  of  all  authors,  in  his  estimation,  was  our  celebrated 
Francesco  Birago,  with  w^hom  he  was  more  than  once  associ- 
ated in  giving  judgment  on  cases  of  honour;  and  who,  on  his 
side,  spoke  of  Don  Ferrante  in  terms  of  particular  esteem. 
And  from  the  time  that  the  Discorsi  Cavallereschi  of  this  re- 
nowned writer  made  their  appearance,  he  predicted,  without 
hesitation,  that  this  work  would  destroy  the  authority  of  Ole- 
vano,  and  would  remain,  together  with  its  other  noble  sisters, 
as  a  code  of  primary  authority  among  posterity :  and  every  one 
may  see,  says  our  anonymous  author,  how  this  prediction  has 
been  verified. 

From  this  he  passes  on  to  the  study  of  belles  lettres;  but 
we  begin  to  doubt  whether  the  reader  has  really  any  great 
wish  to  go  forward  with  us  in  this  review,  and  even  to  fear 


THE   BETROTHED 


407 


that  we  may  already  have  won  the  title  of  servile  copyist  for 
ourselves,  and  that  of  a  bore,  to  be  shared  with  the  anonymous 
author,  for  having  followed  him  out  so  simply,  even  thus  far, 
into  a  subject  foreign  to  the  principal  narrative,  and  in  which, 
probably,  he  was  only  so  dififuse,  for  the  purpose  of  parading 
erudition,  and  showing  that  he  was  not  behind  his  age.  How- 
ever, leaving  written  what  is  written,  that  we  may  not  lose  our 
labour,  we  will  omit  the  rest  to  resume  the  thread  of  our  story : 
the  more  willingly,  as  we  have  a  long  period  to  traverse  with- 
out meeting  with  any  of  our  characters,  and  a  longer  still,  be- 
fore finding  those  in  whose  success  the  reader  will  be  most  in- 
terested, if  anything  in  the  whole  story  has  interested  him  at  all. 

Until  the  autumn  of  the  following  year,  1629,  they  all  re- 
mained, some  willingly,  some  by  force,  almost  in  the  state  in 
which  we  left  them,  nothing  happening  to  any  one,  and  no 
one  doing  anything  worthy  of  being  recorded.  The  autumn 
at  length  approached,  in  which  Agnese  and  Lucia  had  counted 
upon  meeting  again;  but  a  great  public  event  frustrated  that 
expectation:  and  this  certainly  was  one  of  its  most  trifling 
effects.  Other  great  events  followed,  which,  however,  made 
no  material  change  in  the  destinies  of  our  characters.  At 
length,  new  circumstances,  more  general,  more  influential,  and 
more  extensive,  reached  even  to  them — even  to  the  lowest  of 
them,  according  to  the  world's  scale.  It  was  like  a  vast,  sweep- 
ing, and  irresistible  hurricane,  which,  uprooting  trees,  tearing 
off  roofs,  levelling  battlements,  and  scattering  their  fragments 
in  every  direction,  stirs  up  the  straws  hidden  in  the  grass,  pries 
into  every  corner  for  the  light  and  withered  leaves,  which  a 
gentler  breeze  would  only  have  lodged  there  more  securely, 
and  bears  them  of¥  in  its  headlong  course  of  fury. 

Now,  that  the  private  events  which  yet  remain  for  us  to  re- 
late may  be  rendered  intelHgible,  it  will  be  absolutely  neces- 
sary for  us,  even  here,  to  premise  some  kind  of  account  of  these 
public  ones,  and  thus  make  a  still  further  digression. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AFTER  the  sedition  of  St.  Martin's  and  the  following  day, 
it  seemed  that  abundance  had  returned  to  Milan,  as  by 
^  enchantment.  The  bread  shops  were  plentifully  sup- 
plied; the  price  as  low  as  in  the  most  prolific  years,  and 
flour  in  proportion.  They  who  during  those  two  days  had 
employed  themselves  in  shouting,  or  doing  something  worse, 
had  now  (excepting  a  few  who  had  been  seized)  reason  to  con- 
gratulate themselves:  and  let  it  not  be  imagined  that  they 
spared  these  congratulations,  after  the  first  fear  of  being  cap- 
tured had  subsided.  In  the  squares,  at  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  and  in  the  taverns,  there  was  undisguised  rejoicing,  a 
general  murmur  of  applauses,  and  half-uttered  boasts  of  hav- 
ing found  a  way  to  reduce  bread  to  a  moderate  price.  In  the 
midst,  however,  of  this  vaunting  and  festivity,  there  was  (and 
how  could  it  be  otherwise?)  a  secret  feeling  of  disquietude,  and 
presentiment  that  the  thing  could  not  last  long.  They  be- 
sieged the  bakers  and  meal-sellers,  as  they  had  before  done  in 
the  former  artificial  and  transient  abundance  procured  by  the 
first  tariff  of  Antonio  Ferrer;  he  who  had  a  little  money  in  ad- 
vance, invested  it  in  bread  and  flour,  which  were  stored  up  in 
chests,  small  barrels,  and  iron  vessels.  By  thus  emulating 
each  other  in  enjoying  present  advantage,  they  rendered  (I  do 
not  say,  its  long  duration  impossible,  for  such  it  was  of  itself  al- 
ready, but  even)  its  continuance  from  moment  to  moment  ever 
more  difBcult.  And  lo!  on  the  15th  November,  Antonio  Fer- 
rer, De  orden  de  su  Excelencia,  issued  a  proclamation,  in  which 
all  who  had  any  corn  or  flour  in  their  houses  were  forbidden  to 
buy  either  one  or  the  other,  and  every  one  else  to  purchase 
more  than  would  be  required  for  two  days,  under  pain  of  pecun- 
iary and  corporal  punishments,  at  the  zvill  of  his  Excellency.  It 
contained,  also,  intimations  to  the  elders  (a  kind  of  public  of- 
ficer), and  insinuations  to  all  other  persons,  to  inform  against 
offenders;  orders  to  magistrates  to  make  strict  search  in  any 
houses  which  might  be  reported  to  them;  together  with  fresh 
commands  to  the  bakers  to  keep  their  shops  well  furnished  with 

408 


THE   BETROTHED 


409 


bread,  under  pain,  in  case  of  failure,  of  Hve  years  in  the  galleys, 
or  even  greater  penalties,  at  the  zvill  of  his  Excellency.  He  who 
can  imagine  such  a  proclamation  executed,  must  have  a  very 
clever  imagination;  and,  certainly,  had  all  those  issued  at  that 
time  taken  effect,  the  duchy  of  Milan  would  have  had  at  least 
as  many  people  on  the  seas  as  Great  Britain  itself  may  have  at 
present. 

At  any  rate,  as  they  ordered  the  bakers  to  make  so  much 
bread,  it  was  also  necessary  to  give  some  orders  that  the  ma- 
terials for  making  it  should  not  fail.  They  had  contrived  (as, 
in  times  of  scarcity,  the  endeavour  is  always  renewed  to  re- 
duce into  bread  different  alimentary  materials,  usually  con- 
sumed under  another  form),  they  had  contrived,  I  say,  to  in- 
troduce rice  into  a  composition,  called  mixed  bread.  On  the 
23d  November,  an  edict  was  published,  to  limit  to  the  disposal 
of  the  superintendent,  and  the  twelve  members  who  constituted 
the  board  of  provision,  one  half  of  the  dressed  rice  (risone  it 
was  then,  and  is  still,  called  there)  which  every  one  possessed; 
with  the  threat,  to  any  one  who  should  dispose  of  it  without 
the  permission  of  these  noblemen,  of  the  loss  of  the  article,  and 
a  fine  of  three  crowns  a  bushel.  The  honesty  of  this  proceed- 
ing every  one  can  appreciate. 

But  it  was  necessary  to  pay  for  this  rice,  and  at  a  price  very 
disproportioned  to  that  of  bread.  The  burden  of  supplying 
the  enormous  inequality  had  been  imposed  upon  the  city;  but 
the  Council  of  the  Decurioni,  who  had  undertaken  to  discharge 
the  debt  in  behalf  of  the  city,  deliberated  the  same  day,  23d  of 
November,  about  remonstrating  with  the  governor  on  the  im- 
possibility of  any  longer  maintaining  such  an  engagement; 
and  the  governor,  in  a  decree  of  the  7th  December,  fixed  the 
price  of  the  above-named  rice  at  twelve  livres  per  bushel.  To 
those  w^ho  should  demand  a  higher  price,  as  well  as  to  those 
w^ho  should  refuse  to  sell,  he  threatened  the  loss  of  the  article, 
and  a  fine  of  equal  value,  and  greater  pecuniary,  and  even  cor- 
poral punishment,  including  the  galleys,  at  the  will  of  his  Ex- 
cellency, according  to  the  nature  of  the  case,  and  the  rank  of  the 
offender. 

The  price  of  undressed  rice  had  been  already  limited  before 
the  insurrection;  as  the  tariff,  or,  to  use  that  most  famous  term 
of. modern  annals,  the  maximum  of  wheat,  and  other  of  the 
commonest  grains,  had  probably  been  established  in  different 
decrees,  which  we  have  not  happened  to  meet  with. 

Bread  and  flour  being  thus  reduced  to  a  moderate  price  at 
Milan,  it  followed  of  consequence  that  people  flocked  thither  in 
crowds  to  obtain  a  supply.     To  obviate  this  inconvenience,  as 


410 


MANZONI 


he  said,  Don  Gonzalo,  in  another  edict  of  the  15th  December, 
prohibited  carrying  bread  out  of  the  city,  beyond  the  value  of 
twenty  pence,  under  penalty  of  the  loss  of  the  bread  itself,  and 
twenty-five  crowns;  cr,  in  case  of  inability,  of  two  stripes  in 
public,  and  greater  punishment  still,  as  usual,  at  the  zvill  of  his 
Excellency.  On  the  22d  of  the  same  month  (and  why  so  late, 
it  is  difficult  to  say)  a  similar  order  was  issued  with  regard  to 
flour  and  grain. 

The  multitude  had  tried  to  procure  abundance  by  pillage 
and  incendiarism;  the  legal  arm  would  have  maintained  it 
with  the  galleys  and  the  scourge.  The  means  were  convenient 
enough  in  themselves,  but  what  they  had  to  do  with  the  end, 
the  reader  knows;  how  they  actually  answered  their  purpose, 
he  will  see  directly.  It  is  easy,  too,  to  see,  and  not  useless  to 
observe,  the  necessary  connection  between  these  strange  meas- 
ures; each  was  an  inevitable  consequence  of  the  antecedent 
one;  and  all  of  the  first,  which  fixed  a  price  upon  bread  so 
different  to  that  which  would  have  resulted  from  the  real  state 
of  things.  Such  a  provision  ever  has,  and  ever  must  have, 
appeared  to  the  multitude  as  consistent  with  justice,  as  simple 
and  easy  of  execution:  hence,  it  is  quite  natural  that,  in  the 
deprivations  and  grievances  of  a  famine,  they  should  desire  it, 
implore  it,  and,  if  they  can,  enforce  it.  In  proportion,  then, 
as  the  consequences  begin  to  be  felt,  it  is  necessary  that  they 
whose  duty  it  is  should  provide  a  remedy  for  each,  by  a  regu- 
lation, prohibiting  men  to  do  what  they  were  impelled  to  do  by 
the  preceding  one.  We  may  be  permitted  to  remark  here  in 
passing  a  singular  coincidence.  In  a  country  and  at  a  period 
by  no  means  remote,  a  period  the  most  clamorous  and  most 
renowned  of  modern  history,  in  similar  circumstances,  similar 
provisions  obtained  (the  same,  we  might  almost  say,  in  sub- 
stance, with  the  sole  difference  of  proportions,  and  in  nearly 
the  same  succession);  they  obtained,  in  spite  of  the  march  of 
intellect  and  the  knowledge  which  had  spread  over  Europe, 
and  in  that  country,  perhaps,  more  than  in  any  other ;  and  this, 
principally,  because  the  great  mass  of  the  'pfeople,  whom  this 
knowledge  had  not  yet  reached,  could,  in  the  long  run,  make 
their  judgment  prevail,  and,  as  it  was  there  said,  compel  the 
hands  of  those  who  made  the  laws. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  On  a  review  of  the  circum- 
stances, there  were  two  principal  fruits  of  the  insurrection: 
destruction  and  actual  loss  of  provision,  in  the  insurrection 
itself,  and  a  consumption,  while  the  tariff  lasted,  immense,  im- 
measurable, and,  so  to  say,  jovial,  which  rapidly  diminished 
the  small  quantity  of  grain  that  was  to  have  sufficed  till  the 


THE   BETROTHED  4II 

next  harvest.  To  these  general  effects  may  be  added,  the  pun- 
ishment of  four  of  the  populace,  who  were  hung  as  ringleaders 
of  the  tumult,  two  before  the  bakehouse  of  the  Crutches,  and 
two  at  the  end  of  the  street  where  the  house  of  the  superin- 
tendent of  provisions  was  situated. 

As  to  the  rest,  the  historical  accounts  of  those  times  have 
been  written  so  much  at  random,  that  no  information  is  to  be 
found  as  to  how  and  when  this  arbitrary  tariff  ceased.  If,  in 
the  failure  of  positive  notices,  we  may  be  allowed  to  form  a 
conjecture,  we  are  inclined  to  believe  that  it  was  withdrawn 
sho*-tly  before,  or  soon  after,  the  24th  December,  which  was 
the  day  of  the  execution.  As  to  the  proclamations,  after  the 
last  we  have  quoted,  of  the  226.  of  the  same  month,  we  find  no 
more  on  the  subject  of  provisions;  whether  it  be  that  they  have 
perished,  or  have  escaped  our  researches,  or,  finally,  that  the 
government  discouraged,  if  not  instructed,  by  the  inefificacy  of 
these  its  remedies,  and  quite  overwhelmed  with  different  mat- 
ters, abandoned  them  to  their  own  course.  We  find,  indeed, 
in  the  records  of  more  than  one  historian  (inclined,  as  they 
were,  rather  to  describe  great  events  than  to  note  the  causes 
and  progress  of  them),  a  picture  of  the  country,  and  chiefly  of 
the  city,  in  the  already  advanced  winter,  and  following  spring, 
when  the  cause  of  the  evil,  the  disproportion,  i.  e.  between  food 
and  the  demand  for  it  (which,  far  from  being  removed,  was 
even  increased,  by  the  remedies  which  temporarily  suspended 
its  effects),  when  the  true  cause,  I  say,  of  the  scarcity,  or,  to 
speak  more  correctly,  the  scarcity  itself,  was  operating  without 
a  check,  and  exerting  its  full  force.  It  was  not  even  checked 
by  the  introduction  of  a  sufficient  supply  of  corn  from  without, 
to  which  remedy  were  opposed  the  insufficiency  of  public  and 
private  means,  the  poverty  of  the  surrounding  countries,  the 
prevailing  famine,  the  tediousness  and  restrictions  of  com- 
merce, and  the  laws  themselves,  tending  to  the  production  and 
violent  maintenance  of  moderate  prices.  We  will  give  a  sketch 
of  the  mournful  picture. 

At  every  step,  the  shops  closed ;  manufactories  for  the  most 
part  deserted;  the  streets  presenting  an  indescribable  spectacle, 
an  incessant  train  of  miseries,  a  perpetual  abode  of  sorrows. 
Professed  beggars  of  long  standing,  now  become  the  smallest 
number,  mingled  and  lost  in  a  new  swarm,  and  sometimes  re- 
duced to  contend  for  alms  with  those  from  whom,  in  former 
days,  they  had  been  accustomed  to  receive  them.  Apprentices 
and  clerks  dismissed  by  shopkeepers  and  merchants,  who,  when 
their  daily  profits  diminished,  or  entirely  failed,  were  living 
sparingly  on  their  savings,  or  on  their  capital;  shopkeepers  and 


412 


MANZONI 


merchants  themselves,  to  whom  the  cessation  of  business  had 
brought  failure  and  ruin;  workmen  in  every  trade  and  manu- 
facture, the  commonest  as  well  as  the  most  refined,  the  most 
necessary  as  well  as  those  more  subservient  to  luxury,  wander- 
ing from  door  to  door,  and  from  street  to  street,  leaning  against 
the  corners,  stretched  upon  the  pavement,  along  the  houses  and 
churches,  begging  piteously,  or  hesitating  between  want  and  a 
still  unsubdued  shame,  emaciated,  weak,  and  trembling,  from 
long  fasting,  and  the  cold  that  pierced  through  their  tattered 
and  scanty  garments,  which  still,  however,  in  many  instances, 
retained  traces  of  having  been  once  in  a  better  condition;  as 
their  present  idleness  and  despondency  ill  disguised  indi- 
cations of  former  habits  of  industry  and  courage.  Mingled  in 
the  deplorable  throng,  and  forming  no  small  part  of  it,  were 
servants  dismissed  by  their  masters,  who  either  had  sunk 
from  mediocrity  into  poverty,  or  otherwise,  from  wealthy 
and  noble  citizens,  had  become  unable,  in  such  a  year,  to 
maintain  their  accustomed  pomp  of  retinue.  And  for 
each  one,  so  to  say,  of  these  different  needy  objects,  was 
a  number  of  others,  acustomed,  in  part,  to  live  by  their 
gains;  children,  women,  and  aged  relatives,  grouped  around 
their  old  supporters,  or  dispersed  in  search  of  relief  else- 
where. 

There  were,  also,  easily  distinguishable  by  their  tangled 
locks,  by  the  relics  of  their  showy  dress,  or  even  by  something 
in  their  carriage  and  gestures,  and  by  that  expression  which 
habits  impress  upon  the  countenance,  the  more  marked  and 
distinct  as  the  habits  are  strange  and  unusual — many  of  that 
vile  race  of  bravoes,  who,  having  lost  in  the  common  calamity 
their  wickedly-acquired  subsistence,  now  went  about  imploring 
it  for  charity.  Subdued  by  hunger,  contending  with  others 
only  in  entreaties,  and  reduced  in  person,  they  dragged  them- 
selves along  through  the  streets,  which  they  had  so  often  trav- 
ersed with  a  lofty  brow,  and  a  suspicious  and  ferocious  look, 
dressed  in  sumptuous  and  fantastic  livery,  furnished  with  rich 
arms,  plumed,  decked  out,  and  perfumed;  and  humbly  ex- 
tended the  hand  which  had  so  often  been  insolently  raised  to 
threaten,  or  treacherously,  to  wound. 

But  the  most  frequent,  the  most  squalid,  the  most  hideous 
spectacle,  was  that  of  the  country  people,  alone,  in  couples,  or 
even  in  entire  families;  husbands  and  wives,  with  infants  in 
their  arms,  or  tied  up  in  a  bundle  upon  their  backs,  with  chil- 
dren dragged  along  by  the  hand,  or  with  old  people  behind. 
Some  there  were  who,  having  had  their  houses  invaded  and 
pillaged  by  the  soldiery,  had  fled  thither,  either  as  residents  or 


THE   BETROTHED 


413 


passengers,  In  a  kind  of  desperation;  and  among  these  there 
were  some  who  displayed  stronger  incentives  to  compassion, 
and  greater  distinction  in  misery,  in  the  scars  and  bruises  from 
the  wounds  they  had  received  in  the  defence  of  their  few  re- 
maining provisions;  w^hile  others  gave  way  to  a  bhnd  and  bru- 
tal licentiousness.  Others,  again,  unreached  by  that  particular 
scourge,  but  driven  from  their  homes  by  those  two,  from  which 
the  remotest  corner  was  not  exempt,  sterility  and  prices  more 
exorbitant  than  ever,  to  meet  what  were  called  the  necessities 
of  war,  had  come,  and  were  continually  pouring  into  the  city, 
as  to  the  ancient  seat  and  ultimate  asylum  of  plenty  and  pious 
munificence.  The  newly  arrived  might  be  distinguished,  not 
only  by  a  hesitating  step,  and  novel  air,  but  still  more  by  a 
look  of  angry  astonishment,  at  finding  such  an  accumulation, 
such  an  excess,  such  a  rivalry  of  misery,  in  a  place  where  they 
had  hoped  to  appear  singular  objects  of  compassion,  and  to 
attract  to  themselves  all  assistance  and  notice.  The  others, 
who,  for  more  or  less  time,  had  haunted  the  streets  of  the  city, 
prolonging  life  by  the  scanty  food  obtained,  as  it  were,  by 
chance,  in  such  a  disparity  between  the  supply  and  the  demand, 
bore  expressed  in  their  looks  and  carriage  still  deeper  and  more 
anxious  consternation.  Various  in  dress  (or  rather  rags),  as 
well  as  appearance,  in  the  midst  of  the  common  prostration, 
there  were  the  pale  faces  of  the  marshy  districts,  the  bronzed 
countenances  of  the  open  and  hilly  country,  and  the  ruddy 
complexion  of  the  mountaineer,  all  alike  wasted  and  emaciated, 
with  sunken  eyes,  a  stare  betwen  sternness  and  idiocy,  matted 
locks,  and  long  and  ghastly  beards;  bodies,  once  plump  and 
inured  to  fatigue,  now  exhausted  by  want;  shrivelled  skin  on 
their  parched  arms,  legs,  and  bony  breasts,  which  appeared 
through  their  disordered  and  tattered  garments;  while  differ- 
ent from,  but  not  less  melancholy  than,  this  spectacle  of 
wasted  vigour,  was  that  of  a  more  quickly  subdued  nature;  of 
languor,  and  a  more  self-abandoning  debility,  in  the  weaker 
sex  and  age. 

'Here  and  there,  in  the  streets  and  cross-ways,  along  the 
walls,  and  under  the  eaves  of  the  houses,  were  layers  of  tram- 
pled straw  and  stubble,  mixed  with  dirty  rags.  Yet  such  re- 
volting filth  was  the  gift  and  provision  of  charity;  they  were 
places  of  repose  prepared  for  some  of  those  miserable  wretches, 
where  they  might  lay  their  heads  at  night.  Occasionally,  even 
during  the  dav,  some  one  might  be  seen  lying  there,  w^hom 
faintness  and  abstinence  had  robbed  of  breath,  and  the  power  of 
supporting  the  w^eight  of  his  body.  Sometimes  these  wretched 
couches  bore  a  corpse;  sometimes  a  poor  exhausted  creature 


414 


MANZONI 


would  suddenly  sink  on  the  ground,  and  remain  a  lifeless  body 
upon  the  pavement. 

Bending  over  some  of  these  prostrated  sufferers,  a  neigh- 
bour or  passer-by  might  frequently  be  seen,  attracted  by  a 
sudden  impulse  of  compassion.  In  some  places  assistance  was 
tendered,  organized  with  more  distant  foresight,  and  proceed- 
ing from  a  hand  rich  in  the  means,  and  experienced  in  the  ex- 
ercise, of  doing  good  on  a  large  scale; — the  hand  of  the  good 
Federigo.  He  had  made  choice  of  six  priests,  whose  ready 
and  persevering  charity  was  united  with,  and  ministered  to  by, 
a  robust  constitution;  these  he  divided  into  pairs,  and  assigned 
to  each  a  third  part  of  the  city  to  perambulate,  followed  by 
porters  laden  with  various  kinds  of  food,  together  with  other 
more  effective  and  more  speedy  restoratives,  and  clothing. 
Every  morning  these  three  pairs  dispersed  themselves  through 
the  streets  in  different  directions,  approached  those  whom  they 
found  stretched  upon  the  ground,  and  administered  to  each  the 
assistance  he  was  capable  of  receiving.  Some  in  the  agonies 
of  death,  and  no  longer  able  to  partake  of  nourishment,  re- 
ceived at  their  hands  the  last  succours  and  consolations  of  re- 
ligion. To  those  whom  food  might  still  benefit,  they  dis- 
pensed soup,  eggs,  bread,  or  wine;  while  to  others,  exhausted 
by  longer  abstinence,  they  offered  jellies  and  stronger  wines, 
reviving  them  first,  if  need  were,  with  cordials  and  powerful 
acids.  At  the  same  time  they  distributed  garments  to  those 
who  were  most  indecorously  and  miserably  clothed. 

Nor  did  their  assistance  end  here:  it  was  the  good  bishop's 
wish  that,  at  least  where  it  could  be  extended,  efficacious  and 
more  permanent  relief  should  be  administered.  Those  poor 
creatures,  who  felt  sufficiently  strengthened  by  the  first  reme- 
dies to  stand  up  and  walk,  were  also  provided,  by  the  same 
kindly  ministry,  with  a  little  money,  that  returning  need,  and 
the  failure  of  further  succour,  might  not  bring  them  again 
immediately  into  their  first  condition;  for  the  rest,  they  sought 
shelter  and  maintenance  in  some  of  the  neighbouring  houses. 
Those  among  the  inhabitants  who  were  well  off  in  the  world, 
afforded  hospitality  out  of  charity,  and  on  the  recommendation 
of  the  Cardinal;  and  where  there  was  the  will,  without  the 
means,  the  priests  requested  that  the  poor  creature  might  be 
received  as  a  boarder,  agreed  upon  the  terms,  and  immediately 
defrayed  a  part  of  the  expense.  They  then  gave  notice  of  those 
who  were  thus  lodged  to  the  parish  priests,  that  they  might 
go  to  see  them;  and  they  themselves  would  also  return  to 
visit  them. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Federigo  did  not  confine  his 


THE   BETROTHED 


415 


care  to  this  extremity  of  suffering,  nor  wait  till  the  evil  had 
reached  its  height,  before  exerting  himself.  His  ardent  and 
versatile  charity  must  feel  all,  be  employed  in  all,  hasten  where 
it  could  not  anticipate,  and  take,  so  to  say,  as  many  forms  as 
there  were  varieties  of  need.  In  fact,  by  bringing  together 
all  his  means,  saving  with  still  more  rigorous  economy,  and  ap- 
plying sums  destined  to  other  purposes  of  charity,  now,  alas! 
rendered  of  secondary  importance,  he  had  tried  every  method 
of  making  money,  to  be  expended  entirely  in  alleviating  pov- 
erty. He  made  large  purchases  of  corn,  which  he  despatched 
to  the  most  indigent  parts  of  his  diocese;  and  as  the  succours 
were  far  from  equalling  the  necessity,  he  also  sent  plentiful 
supplies  of  salt,  "  with  which,"  says  Ripamonti,  relating  the 
circumstances,  "  the  herbs  of  the  field,  and  bark  from  the  trees, 
might  be  converted  into  human  sustenance."  He  also  dis- 
tributed corn  and  money  to  the  clergy  of  the  city;  he  himself 
visited  it  by  districts,  dispensing  alms;  he  relieved  in  secret 
many  destitute  families;  in  the  archiepiscopal  palace  large 
quantities  of  rice  were  daily  cooked;  and  according  to  the  ac- 
count of  a  contemporary  writer  (the  physician,  Alessandro 
Tadino,  in  his  Ragguaglio,  which  we  shall  frequently  have  oc- 
casion to  quote  in  the  sequel),  two  thousand  porringers  of  this 
food  were  here  distributed  every  morning. 

But  these  fruits  of  charity,  which  we  may  certainly  specify  as 
wonderful,  when  we  consider  that  they  proceeded  from  one  in- 
dividual, and  from  his  sole  resources  (for  Federigo  habitually 
refused  to  be  made  a  dispenser  of  the  liberality  of  others),  these, 
together  with  the  bounty  of  other  private  persons,  if  not  so 
copious,  at  least  more  numerous,  and  the  subsidies  granted  by 
the  Council  of  the  Decurioni  to  meet  this  emergency,  the  dis- 
pensation of  which  was  committed  to  the  Board  of  Provision, 
were,  after  all,  in  comparison  of  the  demand,  scarce  and  inade- 
quate. While  some  few  mountaineers  and  inhabitants  of  the 
valleys,  who  were  ready  to  die  of  hunger,  had  their  lives  pro- 
longed by  the  Cardinal's  assistance,  others  arrived  at  the  ex- 
tremest  verge  of  starvation;  the  former,  having  consumed  their 
raeasured  supplies,  returned  to  the  same  state;  in  other  parts, 
not  forgotten,  but  considered  as  less  straitened  by  a  charity 
v\  hich  was  compelled  to  make  distinctions,  the  sufferings  be- 
came fatal;  in  every  direction  they  perished,  from  every  direc- 
tion they  flocked  to  the  city.  Here  two  thousand,  we  will  say, 
of  famishing  creatures,  the  strongest  and  most  skilful  in  sur- 
mounting competition,  and  making  way  for  themselves,  ob- 
tained, perhaps,  a  bowl  of  soup,  so  as  not  to  die  that  day;  but 
jiiany  more  thousands  remained  behind,  envying  those,  shall 


4i6  MANZONI 

we  say,  more  fortunate  ones,  when  among  them  who  re- 
mained behind,  were  often  their  wives,  children,  or  parents? 
And  while,  in  two  or  three  parts  of  the  city,  some  of  the  most 
destitute  and  reduced  were  raised  from  the  ground,  revived,  re- 
covered, and  provided  for,  for  some  time,  in  a  hundred  other 
quarters,  many  more  sank,  languished,  or  even  expired,  with- 
out assistance,  without  alleviation. 

Throughout  the  day  a  confused  humming  of  lamentable 
entreaties  was  to  be  heard  in  the  streets;  at  night,  a  murmur 
of  groans,  broken  now  and  then  by  howls  suddenly  bursting 
upon  the  ear,  by  loud  and  long  accents  of  complaint,  or  by 
deep  tones  of  invocation,  terminating  in  wild  shrieks. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  in  such  an  extremity  of  want, 
in  such  a  variety  of  complaints,  not  one  attempt  was  ever  made, 
not  one  rumour  ever  raised,  to  bring  about  an  insurrection:  at 
least,  we  find  not  the  least  mention  of  such  a  thing.  Yet, 
among  those  who  lived  and  died  in  this  way,  there  was  a  great 
number  of  men  brought  up  to  anything  rather  than  patient  en- 
durance; there  were,  indeed,  in  hundreds,  those  very  same  in- 
dividuals who,  on  St.  Martin's-day,  had  made  themselves  so 
sensibly  felt.  Nor  must  it  be  imagined  that  the  example  of 
those  four  unhappy  men,  who  bore  in  their  own  persons  the 
penalty  of  all,  was  what  now  kept  them  in  awe:  what  force 
could,  not  the  sight,  but  the  remembrance,  of  punishments 
have,  on  the  minds  of  a  dispersed  and  reunited  multitude, 
who  saw  themselves  condemned,  as  it  were,  to  a  prolonged 
punishment,  which  they  were  already  suffering?  But  so  con- 
stituted are  we  mortals  in  general,  that  we  rebel  indignantly 
and  violently  against  medium  evils,  and  bow  in  silence  under 
extreme  ones;  we  bear,  not  with  resignation,  but  stupefaction, 
the  weight  of  what  at  first  we  had  called  insupportable. 

The  void  daily  created  by  mortality  in  this  deplorable  mul- 
titude, was  every  day  more  than  replenished:  there  was  an  in- 
cessant concourse,  first,  from  the  neighbouring  towns,  then 
from  all  the  country,  then  from  the  cities  of  the  state,  to  the 
very  borders,  even,  of  others.  And  in  the  mean  while,  old  in- 
habitants were  every  day  leaving  Milan;  some  to  withdraw 
from  the  sight  of  so  much  suffering;  others,  being  driven  from, 
the  field,  so  to  say,  by  new  competitors  for  support,  in  a  last 
desperate  attempt  to  find  sustenance  elsewhere,  anywhere — 
anywhere,  at  least,  where  the  crowds  and  rivalry  in  begging 
were  not  so  dense  and  importunate.  These  oppositely-bound 
travellers  met  each  other  on  their  different  routes,  all  spectacles 
of  horror,  and  disastrous  omens  of  the  fate  that  awaited  them 
at  the  end  of  their  respective  journeys.     They  prosecuted,  how- 


THE    BETROTHED 


417 


ever,  the  way  they  had  once  undertaken,  if  no  longer  with  the 
hope  of  changing  their  condition,  at  least  not  to  return  to  a 
scene  which  had  become  odious  to  them,  and  to  avoid  the 
sight  of  a  place  where  they  had  been  reduced  to  despair.  Some, 
even,  whose  last  vital  powers  were  destroyed  by  abstinence, 
sank  down  by  the  way,  and  were  left  where  they  expired,  still 
more  fatal  tokens  to  their  brethren  in  condition — an  object  of 
horror,  perhaps  of  reproach,  to  other  passengers.  "  I  saw," 
writes  Ripamonti,  "  lying  in  the  road  surrounding  the  wall, 
the  corpse  of  a  woman  ....  Half-eaten  grass  was  hanging 
out  of  her  mouth,  and  her  contaminated  lips  still  made  almost 
a  convulsive  effort  ....  She  had  a  bundle  at  her  back,  and, 
secured  by  bands  to  her  bosom,  hung  an  infant,  which  with 
bitter  cries  was  calling  for  the  breast  ....  Some  compassion- 
ate persons  had  come  up,  who,  raising  the  miserable  little  crea- 
ture from  the  ground,  brought  it  some  sustenance,  thus  fulfill- 
ing in  a  measure  the  first  maternal  office." 

The  contrast  of  gay  clothing  and  rags,  of  superfluity  and 
misery,  the  ordinary  spectacle  of  ordinary  times,  had,  in  these 
peculiar  ones,  entirely  ceased.  Rags  and  misery  had  invaded 
almost  every  rank;  and  what  now  at  all  distinguished  them 
was  but  an  appearance  of  frugal  mediocrity.  The  nobility 
were  seen  walking  in  becoming  and  modest,  or  even  dirty  and 
shabby,  clothing;  some,  because  the  common  causes  of  mis- 
ery had  affected  their  fortunes  to  this  degree,  or  given  a  finish- 
ing hand  to  fortunes  already  much  dilapidated;  others,  either 
from  fear  of  provoking  public  desperation  by  display,  or  from 
a  feeling  of  shame  at  thus  insulting  public  calamity.  Petty 
tyrants,  once  hated  and  looked  upon  with  awe,  and  accustomed 
to  wander  about  with  an  insolent  train  of  bravoes  at  their  heels, 
now  walked  almost  unattended,  crest-fallen,  and  with  a  look 
which  seemed  to  ofifer  and  entreat  peace.  Others  who,  in 
prosperity  also,  had  been  of  more  humane  disposition  and  more 
civil  bearing,  appeared  nevertheless  confused,  distracted,  and, 
as  it  were,  overpowered  by  the  continual  view  of  a  calamity, 
which  excluded  not  only  the  possibility  of  relief,  but,  we  may 
almost  say,  the  powers  of  commiseration.  They  who  were 
able  to  afford  any  assistance,  were  obliged  to  make  a  m.elan- 
choly  choice  between  hunger  and  hunger,  between  extremity 
and  extremity.  And  no  sooner  was  a  compassionate  hand 
seen  to  drop  anything  into  the  hand  of  a  wretched  beggar, 
than  a  strife  immediately  rose  between  the  other  miserable 
wretches;  those  w^ho  still  retained  a  little  strength,  pressed  for- 
ward to  solicit  w^ith  more  importunity;  the  feeble,  aged  people, 
and  children,  extended  their  emaciated  hands;  mothers,  from 


4i8 


MANZONI 


behind,  raised  and  held  out  their  weeping  infants,  miserably 
clad  in  their  tattered  swaddling-clothes,  and  reclining  lan- 
guidly in  their  arms. 

Thus  passed  the  winter  and  the  spring:  for  some  time  the 
Board  of  Health  had  been  remonstrating  with  the  Board  of 
Provision,  on  the  danger  of  contagion  which  threatened  the 
city  from  so  much  suffering  accumulated  in,  and  spread 
throughout  it ;  and  had  proposed,  that  all  the  vagabond  mendi- 
cants should  be  collected  together  into  the  different  hospitals. 
While  this  plan  was  being  debated  upon  and  approved;  while 
the  means,  methods,  and  places,  were  being  devised  to  put  it 
into  effect,  corpses  multiplied  in  the  streets,  every  day  bringing 
additional  numbers;  and  in  proportion  to  this,  followed  all 
the  other  concomitants  of  loathsomeness,  misery,  and  danger. 
It  was  proposed  by  the  Board  of  Provisions,  as  more  practi- 
cable and  expeditious,  to  assemble  all  the  mendicants,  healthy 
or  diseased,  in  one  place,  the  Lazzeretto,  and  there  to  feed  and 
maintain  them  at  the  public  expense;  and  this  expedient  was 
resolved  upon,  in  spite  of  the  Board  of  Health,  which  objected 
that,  in  such  an  assemblage,  the  evil  would  only  be  increased 
which  they  wished  to  obviate. 

The  Lazzeretto  at  Milan  (perchance  this  story  should  fall 
into  the  hands  of  any  one  who  does  not  know  it,  either  by 
.sight  or  description)  is  a  quadrilateral  and  almost  equilateral 
enclosure,  outside  the  city,  to  the  left  of  the  gate  called  the 
Porta  Orientale,  and  separated  from  the  bastions  by  the  width 
of  the  fosse,  a  road  of  circumvallation,  and  a  smaller  moat  run- 
ning round  the  building  itself.  The  two  larger  sides  extend  to 
about  the  length  of  five  hundred  paces;  the  other  two,  per- 
haps, fifteen  less;  all,  on  the  outside,  divided  into  little  rooms 
on  the  ground-floor;  while  running  round  three  sides  of  the 
interior  is  a  continuous  vaulted  portico,  supported  by  small 
light  pillars.  The  number  of  the  rooms  was  once  two  hun- 
dred and  eighty-eight,  some  larger  than  others;  but  in  our 
days,  a  large  aperture  made  in  the  middle,  and  a  smaller  one  in 
one  corner  of  the  side  that  flanks  the  highway,  have  destroyed 
I  know  not  how  many.  At  the  period  of  our  story  there  were 
only  two  entrances,  one  in  the  centre  of  the  side  which  looked 
upon  the  city-wall,  the  other  facing  it  in  the  opposite  side.  In 
the  midst  of  the  clear  and  open  space  within  rose  a  small  oc- 
tagonal temple,  which  is  still  in  existence.  The  primary  object 
of  the  whole  edifice,  begun  in  the  year  1489,  with  a  private 
legacy,  and  afterward  continued  with  the  public  money,  and 
that  of  other  testators  and  donors,  was,  as  the  name  itself  de- 
notes, to  afford  a  place  of  refuge,  in  cases  of  necessity,  to  such 


THE   BETROTHED 


419 


as  were  ill  of  the  plague;  which,  for  some  time  before  that 
epoch,  and  for  a  long  while  after  it,  usually  appeared  two,  four, 
six,  or  eight  times  a  century,  now  in  this,  now  in  that  Euro- 
pean country,  sometimes  taking  a  great  part  of  it,  sometimes 
even  traversing  the  whole,  so  to  say,  from  one  end  to  the  other. 
At  the  time  of  which  we  are  speaking,  the  Lazzeretto  was 
merely  used  as  a  repository  for  goods  suspected  of  conveying 
infection. 

To  prepare  it  on  this  occasion  for  its  new  destination,  the 
usual  forms  were  rapidly  gone  through;  and  having  hastily 
made  the  necessary  cleansings  and  prescribed  experiments,  all 
the  goods  were  immediately  liberated.  Straw  was  spread  out 
in  every  room,  purchases  were  made  of  provisions,  of  what- 
ever kind  and  in  whatever  quantities  they  could  be  procured; 
and,  by  a  public  edict,  all  beggars  were  invited  to  take  shelter 
there. 

Many  willingly  accepted  the  oflfer;  all  those  who  were 
lying  ill  in  the  streets  or  squares  were  carried  thither;  and  in 
a  few  days  there  w^ere  altogether  more  than  three  thousand 
who  had  taken  refuge  there.  But  far  more  were  they  who 
remained  behind.  Whether  it  were  that  each  one  expected 
to  see  others  go,  and  hoped  that  there  would  thus  be  a  smaller 
party  left  to  share  the  relief  which  could  be  obtained  in  the 
city,  or  from  a  natural  repugnance  to  confinement,  or  from 
the  disgust  felt  by  the  poor  of  all  that  is  proposed  to  them  by 
those  who  possess  wealth  or  power  (a  distrust  always  propor- 
tioned to  the  common  ignorance  of  those  who  feel  it  and  those 
who  inspire  it — to  the  number  of  the  poor,  and  the  strictness 
of  the  regulations),  or  from  the  actual  knowledge  of  what  the 
offered  benefit  was  in  reality,  or  whether  it  were  all  these  put 
together,  or  whatever  else  it  might  be,  certain  it  is  that  the 
greater  number,  paying  no  attention  to  the  invitation,  con- 
tinued to  wander  about  begging  through  the  city.  This  being 
perceived,  it  was  considered  advisable  to  pass  from  invitation 
to  force.  Bailiffs  wxre  sent  round,  who  drove  all  the  mendi- 
cants to  the  Lazzeretto,  and  even  brought  those  bound  who 
made  any  resistance;  for  each  one  of  whom  a  premium  of  ten 
soldi  was  assigned  to  them.  So  true  is  it  that,  even  in  the 
scarcest  times,  piiblic  money  may  always  be  found  to  be  em- 
ployed foolishly.  And  though,  as  it  had  been  imagined,  and 
even  expressly  intended  by  the  provision,  a  certain  number  of 
beggars  made  their  escape  from  the  city  to  go  and  live  or  die 
elsewhere,  if  it  were  only  in  freedom,  yet  the  compulsion  was 
such,  that  in  a  short  time  the  number  of  refugees,  what  with 
guests  and  prisoners,  amounted  to  nearly  ten  thousand. 


420 


MANZONI 


We  must  naturally  suppose  that  the  women  and  children 
were  lodged  in  separate  quarters,  though  the  records  of  the 
time  make  no  mention  of  it.  Regulations,  besides,  and  pro- 
visions for  the  maintenance  of  good  order,  would  certainly 
not  be  wanting;  but  the  reader  may  imagine  what  kind  of  or- 
der could  be  established  and  maintained,  especially  in  those 
times,  and  under  such  circumstances,  in  so  vast  and  diversified 
an  assemblage,  where  the  unwilling  inmates  associated  with 
the  willing — those  to  whom  mendicity  was  a  mournful  neces- 
sity, and  subject  of  shame,  with  those  whose  trade  and  custom 
it  had  long  been;  many  who  had  been  trained  to  honest  in- 
dustry in  the  fields  or  warehouses,  with  many  others  w^ho  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  streets,  taverns,  or  some  other  vile  re- 
sorts, to  idleness,  roguery,  scoffing,  and  violence. 

How  they  fared  all  together  for  lodging  and  food,  might 
be  sadly  conjectured,  had  we  no  positive  information  on  the 
subject;  but  we  have  it.  They  slept  crammed  and  heaped 
together,  by  twenty  and  thirty  in  each  little  cell,  or  lying  under 
the  porticoes,  on  pallets  of  putrid  and  fetid  straw,  or  even  on 
the  bare  ground:  it  was  ordered,  indeed,  that  the  straw  should 
be  fresh  and  abundant,  and  frequently  changed;  but,  in  fact, 
it  was  scarce,  bad,  and  never  renewed.  There  were  orders, 
likewise,  that  the  bread  should  be  of  good  quality;  for  what 
administration  ever  decreed  that  bad  commodities  should  be 
manufactured  and  dispensed?  But  how  obtain,  under  the  ex- 
isting circumstances,  and  in  such  confusion,  what  in  ordinary 
cases  could  not  have  been  procured,  even  for  a  less  enormous 
demand?  It  was  affirmed,  as  we  find  in  the  records  of  the 
times,  that  the  bread  of  the  Lazzeretto  was  adulterated  with 
heavy  but  unnutritious  materials;  and  it  is  too  likely  that  this 
was  not  a  mere  unfounded  complaint.  There  was  also  a  great 
deficiency  of  water,  that  is  to  say,  of  wholesome  spring- 
water:  the  common  beverage  must  have  been  from  the  moat 
that  washed  the  walls  of  the  enclosure,  shallow,  slow,  in  places 
even  muddy;  and  become,  too,  what  the  use  and  the  vicinity 
of  such  and  so  vast  a  multitude  must  have  rendered  it. 

To  all  these  causes  of  mortality,  the  more  efifective  as  they 
acted  upon  diseased  or  enfeebled  bodies,  was  added  the  most 
unpropitious  season;  obstinate  rains,  followed  by  a  drought 
still  m.ore  obstinate,  and  with  it,  an  anticipated  and  violent 
heat.  To  these  evils  were  added  a  keen  sense  of  them;  the 
tedium  and  frenzy  of  captivity;  a  longing  to  return  to  old 
habits;  grief  for  departed  friends;  anxious  remembrances  of 
absent  ones;  disgust  and  dread,  inspired  by  the  misery  of 
others;  and  many  other  feelings  of  despair,  or  madness,  either 


THE    BETROTHED  42I 

brought  with  them,  or  first  awakened  there;  together  with 
the  apprehension  and  constant  spectacle  of  death,  which  was 
rendered  frequent  by  so  many  causes,  and  had  become  itself  a 
new  and  powerful  cause.  Nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  that 
mortality  increased  and  prevailed  in  this  confinement,  to  such 
a  degree,  as  to  assume  the  aspect,  and  with  many  the  name, 
of  pestilence.  Whether  it  were  that  the  union  and  augmenta- 
tion of  all  these  causes  only  served  to  increase  the  activity  of 
a  merely  epidemic  influenza,  or  (as  it  seems  frequently  to  hap- 
pen in  less  severe  and  prolonged  famines)  that  a  real  contagion 
had  gained  ground  there,  which,  in  bodies  disposed  and  pre- 
pared for  it  by  the  scarcity  and  bad  quality  of  food,  by  un- 
wholesome air,  by  uncleanliness,  by  exhaustion,  and  by  con- 
sternation, found  its  own  temperature,  so  to  say,  and  its  own 
season — the  conditions,  in  short,  necessary  for  its  birth,  pres- 
ervation, and  multiplication  (if  one  unskilled  in  these  matters 
may  be  allowed  to  put  forth  these  sentiments,  after  the  hypoth- 
esis propounded  by  certain  doctors  of  medicine,  and  repro- 
pounded  at  length,  with  many  arguments,  and  much  caution, 
by  one  as  diligent  as  he  is  talented);  or  whether,  again,  the 
contagion  first  broke  out  in  the  Lazzeretto  itself,  as,  according 
to  an  obscure  and  inexact  account,  it  seems  was  thought  by 
the  physicians  of  the  Board  of  Health;  or  whether  it  were  ac- 
tually in  existence  and  hovering  about  before  that  time  (which 
seems,  perhaps,  the  most  likely,  if  we  recollect  that  the  scarcity 
was  already  universal,  and  of  long  date,  and  the  mortality  fre- 
quent), and  that,  when  once  introduced  there,  it  spread  with 
fresh  and  terrible  rapidity,  owing  to  the  accumulation  of  bod- 
ies, which  were  rendered  still  more  disposed  to  receive  it,  from 
the  increasing  efficacy  of  the  other  causes;  whichever  of  these 
conjectures  be  the  true  one,  the  daily  number  of  deaths  in  the 
Lazzeretto  shortly  exceeded  a  hundred. 

While  all  the  rest  here  was  languor,  suffering,  fear,  lamen- 
tations, and  horror,  in  the  Board  of  Provision  there  were 
shame,  stupefaction,  and  incertitude.  They  consulted  and  lis- 
tened to  the  advice  of  the  Board  of  Health,  and  could  find  no 
other  course  than  to  undo  what  had  been  done  with  so  much 
preparation,  so  much  expense,  and  so  much  unwillingness. 
They  opened  the  Lazzeretto,  and  dismissed  all  who  had  any 
strength  remaining,  who  made  their  escape  with  a  kind  of 
furious  joy.  The  city  once  more  resounded  with  its  former 
clamour,  but  more  feeble  and  interrupted;  it  again  saw  that 
more  diminished,  and  "  more  miserable  "  crowd,  says  Ripa- 
monti,  when  remembering  how  it  had  been  thus  diminished. 
The  sick  were  transported  to  Santa  Maria  della  Stella,  at  that 


422 


MANZONI 


time  an   hospital   for   beggars;    and   here   the    greater   part 
perished. 

In  the  mean  while,  however,  the  blessed  fields  began  to 
whiten.  The  mendicants  from  the  country  set  off,  each  one  to 
his  own  parts,  for  this  much-deserved  harvest.  The  good  Fede- 
rigo  dismissed  them  with  a  last  effort  and  new  invention  of 
charity;  to  every  countryman  who  presented  himself  at  the 
archiepiscopal  palace  he  gave  a  giulio  and  a  reaping  sickle. 

With  the  harvest,  the  scarcity  at  length  ceased;  the  mor- 
tality, however,  whether  epidemic  or  contagious,  though  de- 
creasing from  day  to  day,  was  protracted  even  into  the  season 
of  autumn.  It  was  on  the  point  of  vanishing,  when,  behold,  a 
new  scourge  made  its  appearance. 

Many  important  events,  of  that  kind  which  are  more  pe- 
culiarly denominated  historical  facts,  had  taken  place  during 
this  interval.  The  Cardinal  de  Richelieu  having,  as  we  have 
said,  taken  La  Rochelle,  and  having  patched  up  an  accommo- 
dation with  the  King  of  England,  had  proposed  and  carried  by 
his  potential  voice  in  the  French  Council,  that  some  effectual 
succour  should  be  rendered  to  the  Duke  of  Nevers,  and  had, 
at  the  same  time,  persuaded  the  King  himself  to  conduct  the 
expedition  in  person.  While  making  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions, the  Count  de  Nassau,  imperial  commissary,  suggested 
at  Mantua  to  the  new  Duke  that  he  should  give  up  the  states 
into  Ferdinand's  hands,  or  that  the  latter  would  send  an  army 
to  occupy  them.  The  Duke,  who,  in  more  desperate  circum- 
stances, had  scorned  to  accept  so  hard  and  little-to-be-trusted  a 
condition,  and  encouraged  now  by  the  approaching  aid  from 
France,  scorned  it  so  much  the  more;  but  in  terms  in  which 
the  no  W3.S  wrapped  up  and  kept  at  a  distance,  as  much  as 
might  be,  and  with  even  more  apparent,  but  less  costly,  pro- 
posals of  submission.  The  commissary  took  his  departure, 
threatening  that  they  would  come  to  decide  it  by  force.  In 
the  month  of  March  the  Cardinal  Richelieu  made  a  descent, 
with  the  King  at  the  head  of  an  army;  he  demanded  a  passage 
from  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  entered  upon  a  treaty,  which,  how- 
ever, was  not  concluded;  and  after  an  encounter,  in  which  the 
French  had  the  advantage,  again  negotiated  and  concluded  an 
agreement,  in  which  the  Duke  stipulated,  among  other  things, 
that  Cordova  should  raise  the  siege  of  Casale;  pledging  him- 
self, in  case  of  his  refusal,  to  join  with  the  French,  for  the  inva- 
sion of  the  Duchy  of  Milan.  Don  Gonzalo,  reckoning  it,  too, 
a  very  cheap  bargain,  withdrew  his  army  from  Casale,  which 
was  immediately  entered  by  a  body  of  French  to  reinforce 
the  garrison. 


THE   BETROTHED  423 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  AchilHni  addressed  to  King 
Louis  his  famous  sonnet: — 

"  Sudate,  o,  fochi,  a  prcparar  metalU  ;  " 

and  another,  in  which  he  exhorted  him  to  repair  immediately 
to  the  dehverance  of  Terra-Santa.  But  there  is  a  fatal  decree, 
that  the  advice  of  poets  should  not  be  followed;  and  if  any  do- 
ings happen  to  be  found  in  history,  in  conformity  with  their 
suggestions,  we  may  safely  affirm  that  they  were  resolved 
upon  beforehand.  The  Cardinal  de  Richelieu  determined,  in- 
stead to  return  to  France  on  affairs  which  he  considered  more 
urgent.  Girolamo  Soranzo,  the  Venetian  envoy,  urged,  in- 
deed, much  stronger  reasons  to  divert  this  resolution;  but  the 
King  and  the  Cardinal,  paying  no  more  attention  to  his  prose 
than  to  the  verses  of  Achillini,  returned  with  the  greater  part 
of  the  army,  leaving  only  six  thousand  men  in  Susa,  to  occupy 
the  pass,  and  maintain  the  treaty. 

While  this  army  was  retiring  on  one  hand,  that  of  Fer- 
dinand, headed  by  the  Count  di  Collalto,  aproached  on  the 
other;  it  invaded  the  country  of  Grisons  and  Valtelline,  and 
prepared  to  descend  upon  the  Milanese.  Besides  all  the  ter- 
rors to  which  the  announcement  of  such  a  migration  gave  rise, 
the  alarming  rumour  got  abroad,  and  was  confirmed  by  ex- 
press tidings,  that  the  plague  was  lurking  in  the  army,  of 
which  there  were  always  some  symptoms  at  that  time  in  the 
German  troops,  according  to  Varchi,  in  speaking  of  that 
which,  a  century  before,  had  been  introduced  into  Florence 
by  their  means.  Alessandro  Tadino,  one  of  the  Conservators 
of  the  public  health  (there  were  six,  besides  the  president: 
four  magistrates  and  two  physicians),  was  commissioned  by 
the  Board,  as  he  himself  relates  in  his  Ragguaglio  already 
quoted,  to-  remonstrate  with  the  governor  on  the  fearful  dan- 
ger which  threatened  the  country,  if  that  vast  multitude  ob- 
tained a  passage  through  it  to  Mantua,  as  the  report  ran. 
From  the  whole  behaviour  of  Don  Gonzalo,  it  appears  he  had 
a  great  desire  to  make  a  figure  in  history,  which,  in  truth,  can 
not  avoid  giving  an  account  of  some  of  his  doings;  but  (as 
often  happens)  it  knew  not,  or  took  no  pains  to  record,  an  act 
of  his,  the  most  worthy  of  remembrance  and  attention — the 
answer  he  gave  to  the  physician  Tadino  on  this  occasion.  He 
replied,  '*  That  he  knew  not  what  to  do;  that  the  reasons  of 
interest  and  reputation  which  had  caused  the  march  of  that 
army,  were  of  greater  weight  than  the  represented  danger; 
but  that,  nevertheless,  he  must  try  to  remedy  it  as  well  as 
he  could,  and  must  then  trust  in  Providence." 


424 


MANZONI 


To  remedy  it,  therefore,  as  well  as  he  could,  the  two 
physicians  of  the  Board  of  Health  (the  above-mentioned  Tadi- 
no,  and  Senatore  Settala,  son  of  the  celebrated  Lodovico)  pro- 
posed in  this  committee  to  prohibit,  under  severe  penalties, 
the  purchase  of  any  kind  of  commodities  whatsoever  from 
the  soldiers  who  were  about  to  pass ;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
make  the  president  understand  the  advantage  of  such  a  regula- 
tion: "A  kind-hearted  man,"  says  Tadino,  ''who  could  not 
believe  that  the  probability  of  the  death  of  so  many  thousands 
must  follow  upon  trafhc  with  these  people  and  their  goods." 
We  quote  this  extract,  as  one  of  the  singularities  of  those 
times:  for  certainly,  since  there  have  been  Boards  of  Health, 
no  other  president  of  one  of  them  ever  happened  to  use  such 
an  argument — if  argument  it  be. 

As  to  Don  Gonzalo,  this  reply  was  one  of  his  last  per- 
formances here;  for  the  ill  success  of  the  war,  promoted  and 
conducted  chiefly  by  himself,  was  the  cause  of  his  being  re- 
moved from  his  post,  in  the  course  of  the  summer.  On  his 
departure  from  Milan,  a  circumstance  occurred  which,  by 
some  contemporary  writer,  is  noticed  as  the  first  of  that  kind 
that  ever  happened  there  to  a  man  of  his  rank.  On  leaving 
the  palace,  called  the  City  Palace,  surrounded  by  a  great  com- 
pany of  noblemen,  he  encountered  a  crowd  of  the  populace, 
some  of  whom  preceded  him  in  the  way,  and  others  followed 
behind,  shouting,  and  upbraiding  him  with  imprecations,  as 
being  the  cause  of  the  famine  they  had  sufTfered,  by  the  per- 
mission, they  said,  he  had  given  to  carry  corn  and  rice  out  of 
the  city.  At  his  carriage,  which  was  following  the  party,  they 
hurled  worse  missiles  than  words;  stones,  bricks,  cabbage- 
stalks,  rubbish  of  all  sorts — the  usual  ammunition,  in  short,  of 
these  expeditions.  Repulsed  by  the  guards,  they  drew  back; 
but  only  to  run,  augmented  on  the  way  by  many  fresh  parties, 
to  prepare  themselves  at  the  Porta  Ticinese,  through  which 
gate  he  would  shortly  have  to  pass  in  his  carriage.  When  the 
equipage  made  its  appearance,  followed  by  many  others,  they 
showered  down  upon  them  all,  both  with  hands  and  slings,  a 
perfect  torrent  of  stones.  The  matter,  however,  went  no  fur- 
ther. 

The  Marquis  Ambrogio  Splnola  was  despatched  to  sup- 
ply his  place,  whose  name  had  already  acquired,  in  the  wars  of 
Flanders,  the  military  renown  it  still  retains. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  German  army  had  received  definite 
orders  to  march  forward  to  Mantua,  and,  in  the  month  of 
September,  they  entered  the  Duchy  of  Milan. 

The  military  forces  in  those  days  were  still  chiefly  com- 


THE   BETROTHED 


425 


posed  of  volunteers,  enlisted  under  commanders  by  profession, 
sometimes  by  commission  from  this  or  that  prince;  some- 
times, also,  on  their  own  account,  that  they  might  dispose  of 
themselves  and  their  men  together.  These  were  attracted  to 
this  employment,  much  less  by  the  pay,  than  by  the  hopes  of 
plunder,  and  all  the  gratifications  of  military  license.  There 
was  no  fixed  and  universal  discipline  in  an  army  so  composed ; 
nor  was  it  possible  easily  to  bring  into  concordance  the  inde- 
pendent authority  of  so  many  different  leaders.  These  too, 
in  particular,  were  not  very  nice  on  the  subject  of  discipline, 
nor,  had  they  been  willing,  can  we  see  how  they  could  have 
succeeded  in  establishing  and  maintaining  it;  for  soldiers  of 
this  kind  would  either  have  revolted  against  an  innovating 
commander,  who  should  have  taken  it  into  his  head  to  abolish 
pillage,  or,  at  least,  would  have  left  him  by  himself  to  defend 
his  colours.  Besides,  as  the  princes  who  hired  these  troops 
sought  rather  to  have  hands  enough  to  secure  their  under- 
takings, than  to  proportion  the  number  to  their  means  of  re- 
muneration, which  were  generally  very  scanty,  so  the  pay- 
ments were  for  the  most  part  late,  on  account,  and  by  little  at 
a  time;  and  the  spoils  of  the  countries  they  were  making  war 
upon,  or  overran,  became,  as  it  were,  a  compensation  tacitly 
accorded  to  them.  It  was  a  saying  of  Wallenstein's,  scarcely 
less  celebrated  than  his  name,  that  it  was  easier  to  maintain 
an  army  of  a  hundred  thousand  men,  than  one  of  twelve  thou- 
sand. And  that  of  which  we  are  speaking,  was,  in  great  part, 
composed  of  men  who,  under  his  command  had  desolated 
Germany  in  that  war,  so  celebrated  among  other  wars  both 
for  itself  and  for  its  effects,  which  afterward  took  its  name 
from  the  thirty  years  of  its  duration;  it  was  then  the  eleventh 
year.  There  was,  besides,  his  own  special  regiment,  con- 
ducted by  one  of  his  lieutenants;  of  the  other  leaders,  the 
greatest  part  had  commanded  under  him;  and  there  were,  also, 
more  than  one  of  those  who,  four  years  afterward,  had  to  as- 
sist in  bringing  him  to  that  evil  end  which  everybody  knows. 

There  were  twenty-eight  thousand  foot,  and  seven  thou- 
sand horse;  and  in  descending  from  Valtelline  to  reach  the 
territory  of  Mantua,  they  had  to  follow,  more  or  less  closely, 
the  course  of  the  Adda  w^here  it  forms  two  branches  of  a  lake, 
then  again  as  a  river  to  its  junction  with  the  Po,  and  afterward 
for  some  distance  along  the  banks  of  this  river;  on  the  whole 
eight  days'  march  in  the  Duchy  of  Milan. 

A  great  part  of  the  inhabitants  retired  to  the  mountains, 
taking  with  them  their  most  valuable  effects,  and  driving  their 
cattle  before  them;  others  stayed  behind,  either  to  tend  upon 


426  MANZONI 

some  sick  person,  or  to  defend  their  houses  from  the  flames, 
or  to  keep  an  eye  upon  precious  things  which  they  had  con- 
cealed under-ground;  some  because  they  had  nothing  to  lose; 
and  a  few  villains,  also,  to  make  acquisitions.  When  the  first 
detachment  arrived  at  the  village  where  they  were  to  halt,  they 
quickly  spread  themselves  through  this  and  the  neighbouring 
ones,  and  plundered  them  directly;  all  that  could  be  eaten  or 
carried  off,  disappeared :  not  to  speak  of  the  destruction  of  the 
rest,  of  the  fields  laid  waste,  of  the  houses  given  to  the  flames, 
the  blows,  the  wounds,  the  rapes,  committed.  All  the  expedi- 
ents, all  the  defences  employed  to  save  property,  often  proved 
useless,  sometimes  even  more  injurious  to  the  owners.  The 
soldiers,  far  more  practised  in  the  stratagems  of  this  kind  of 
war,  too,  rummaged  every  corner  of  the  dwellings ;  tore  down 
walls;  easily  discovered  in  the  gardens  the  newly-disturbed 
soil;  penetrated  even  to  the  hills,  to  carry  off  the  cattle;  went 
into  caves  under  the  guidance  of  some  villain,  as  we  have  said, 
in  search  of  any  wealthy  inhabitant  who  might  be  concealed 
there;  despoiled  his  person,  dragged  him  to  his  house,  and, 
by  dint  of  threats  and  blows,  compelled  him  to  point  out  his 
hidden  treasure. 

At  length,  however,  they  took  their  departure,  and  the 
distant  sound  of  drums  or  trumpets  gradually  died  away  on 
the  ear:  this  was  followed  by  a  few  hours  of  death-like  calm: 
and  then  a  new  hateful  clashing  of  arms,  a  new  hateful  rum- 
bling, announced  another  squadron.  These,  no  longer  find- 
ing anything  to  plunder,  applied  themselves  with  the  more 
fury  to  make  destruction  and  havoc  of  the  rest,  burning  furni- 
ture, door-posts,  beams,  casks,  wine-vats,  and  sometimes  even 
the  houses;  they  seized^and  ill-used  the  inhabitants  with 
double  ferocity; — and  so  on,  from  worse  to  worse,  for  twenty 
days;  for  into  this  number  of  detachments  the  army  was 
divided. 

Colico  was  the  first  town  of  the  Duchy  invaded  by  these 
fiends;  afterward,  they  threw  themselves  into  Bellano;  thence 
they  entered  and  spread  themselves  through  Valsassina,  and 
then  poured  down  into  the  territory  of  Lecco. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

AND  here  we  find  that  persons  of  our  acquaintance  were 
sharers  in  the  wide-spread  alarm. 
^  One  who  saw  not  Don  Abbondio,  the  day  that  the 

news  was  suddenly  spread  of  the  descent  of  the  army, 
of  its  near  approach,  and  destructive  proceedings,  knows  very 
little  of  what  embarrassment  and  consternation  really  are. 
They  are  coming!  there  are  thirty,  there  are  forty,  there  are 
fifty  thousand;  they  are  devils,  heretics,  antichrists!  they've 
sacked  Cortenuova!  they've  set  fire  to  Primaluna!  they've  de- 
vastated Introbbio,  Pasturo,  Barsio!  they've  been  seen  at  Ba- 
labbio!  they'll  be  here  to-morrow! — such  were  the  reports 
that  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth;  some  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
others  standing  in  little  parties;  together  with  tumultuous 
consultations,  hesitation  whether  to  fly  or  remain,  the  women 
assembling  in  groups,  and  all  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  do. 
Don  Abbondio,  who  had  resolved  before  any  one  else,  and 
more  than  any  one  else,  to  fly,  by  any  possible  mode  of 
flight,  and  to  any  conceivable  place  of  retreat,  discovered 
insuperable  obstacles  and  fearful  dangers.  ''  What  shall  I 
do?"  exclaimed  he.  "Where  shall  I  go?"  The  mountains, 
letting  alone  the  difificulty  of  getting  there,  were  not  secure: 
it  was  well  known  that  the  German  foot  soldiers  climbed 
them  like  cats,  where  they  had  the  least  indication  or  hope 
of  finding  booty.  The  lake  was  wide;  there  was  a  very 
high  wind;  besides,  the  greater  part  of  the  boatmen,  fear- 
ing they  might  be  compelled  to  convey  soldiers  or  baggage, 
had  retreated  with  their  boats  to  the  opposite  side:  the  few 
that  had  remained,  were  gone  off  overladen  with  people, 
and,  distressed  with  their  own  weight  and  the  violence  of 
the  storm,  were  considered  in  greater  peril  every  moment. 
It  was  impossible  to  find  a  vehicle,  horse,  or  conveyance  of 
any  kind,  to  carry  him  away  from  the  road  the  army  had  to 
traverse;  and  on  foot  Don  Abbondio  could  not  manage  any 
great  distance,  and  feared  being  overtaken  by  the  way.  The 
confines  of  the  Bergamascan  territory  were  not  so  very  far  off, 

427 


428  MANZONI 

but  that  his  Hmbs  could  have  borne  him  thither  at  a  stretch; 
but  a  report  had  been  already  spread,  that  a  squadron  of  cap- 
pelletti  had  been  despatched  from  Bergamo  in  haste,  who  were 
occupying  the  borders  to  keep  the  German  troops  in  order;  and 
those  were  neither  more  nor  less  devils  incarnate  than  these, 
and  on  their  part  did  the  worst  they  could.  The  poor  man 
ran  through  the  house  with  eyes  starting  from  his  head,  and 
half  out  of  his  senses;  he  kept  following  Perpetua  to  concert 
some  plan  with  her;  but  Perpetua,  busied  in  collecting  the 
most  valuable  household  goods,  and  hiding  them  under  the 
floor,  or  in  any  other  out-of-the-way  place,  pushed  by  hurried- 
ly, eager  and  preoccupied,  with  her  hands  or  arms  full,  and 
replied:  *'  I  shall  have  done  directly  putting  these  things  away 
safely,  and  then  we'll  do  what  others  do."  Don  Abondio 
would  have  detained  her,  and  discussed  with  her  the  different 
courses  to  be  adopted;  but  she,  what  with  her  business,  and 
her  hurry,  and  the  fear  which  she,  too,  felt  within,  and  the 
vexation  which  that  of  her  master  excited,  was,  in  this  junc- 
ture, less  tractable  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  *'  Others 
do  the  best  they  can;  and  so  will  we.  I  beg  your  pardon;  but 
you  are  good  for  nothing  but  to  hinder  me.  Do-  you  think  that 
others  haven't  skins  to  save,  too?  That  the  soldiers  are  only 
coming  to  fight  with  you?  You  might  even  lend  a  hand  at 
such  a  time,  instead  of  coming  crying  and  bothering  aft  one's 
feet."  With  these  and  similar  answers  she  at  length  got  rid 
of  him,  having  already  determined,  when  this  bustling  opera- 
tion was  finished  as  well  as  might  be,  to  take  him  by  the  arm 
like  a  child,  and  to  drag  him  along  to  one  of  the  mountains. 
Left  thus  alone,  he  retreated  to  the  window,  looked,  listened; 
or,  seeing  some  one  passing,  cried  out  in  a  half-crying  and 
half-reproachful  tone:  **  Do  your  poor  curate  this  kindness, 
to  seek  some  horse,  some  mule,  some  ass,  for  him!  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  nobody  will  help  me!  Oh,  what  people!  Wait  for 
me,  at  least,  that  I  may  go  with  you !  wait  till  you  are  fifteen 
or  twenty,  to  take  me  with  you,  that  I  may  not  be  quite  for- 
saken! Will  you  leave  me  in  the  hand  of  dogs?  Don't  you 
know  they  are  nearly  all  Lutherans,  who  think  it  a  meritorious 
deed  to  murder  a  priest?  Will  you  leave  me  here  to  be  mar- 
tyred?    Oh,  what  a  set!     Oh,  what  a  set!  " 

But  to  whom  did  he  address  these  words?  To  men  who 
were  passing  along  bending  under  the  weight  of  their  humble 
furniture,  and  their  thoughts  turned  toward  that  which  they 
Avere  leaving  at  home  exposed  to  plunder;  one  driving  be- 
fore him  a  young  cow,  another  dragging  after  him  his  chil- 
dren, also  laden  as  heavily  as  they  could  bear,  while  his  wife 


THE    BETROTHED 


429 


carried  in  her  arms  such  as  were  unable  to  walk.  Some 
went  on  their  way  without  replying  or  looking  up;  others 
said:  "  Eh,  sir,  you  too  must  do  as  you  can!  happy  you,  who 
have  no  family  to  think  for!  you  must  help  yourself,  and  do 
the  best  you  can." 

*' Oh,  poor  me!"  exclaimed  Don  Abbondio;  ''oh,  what 
people!  what  hard  hearts!  There's  no  charity:  everybody 
thinks  of  himself;  but  nobody'U  think  for  me!  "  And  he  set 
off  again  in  search  of  Perpetua. 

"  Oh,  I  just  wanted  you!  "  said  she.     "  Your  money?  " 

''What  shall  we  do?" 

"  Give  it  me,  and  I'll  go  and  bury  it  in  the  garden  here  by 
the  house,  together  with  the  silver,  and  knives  and  forks." 

"  But  .  .  .  ." 

"  But,  but;  give  it  here;  keep  a  few  pence  for  v/hatever 
may  happen;  and  then  leave  it  to  me." 

Don  Abbondio  obeyed,  went  to  his  trunk,  took  out  his 
little  treasure,  and  handed  it  to  Perpetua,  who  said,  "  Pm 
going  to  bury  it  in  the  garden,  at  the  foot  of  the  fig-tree ;  " 
and  went  out.  Soon  afterward  she  reappeared  with  a  packet 
in  her  hand,  containing  some  provision  for  the  appetite,  and  a 
small  empty  basket,  in  the  bottom  of  which  she  hastily  placed 
a  little  lineti  for  herself  and  her  master,  saying,  at  the  same 
time,  '*  You'll  carry  the  breviary,  at  least!  " 

"  But  where  are  we  going? " 

"  Where  are  all  the  rest  going?  First  of  all,  we'll  go  into 
the  street;  and  there  we  shall  see  and  hear  what's  best  to 
be  done." 

At  this  moment  Agnese  entered,  also  carrying  a  basket 
slung  over  her  shoulder,  and  with  the  air  of  one  who  comes  to 
make  an  important  proposal. 

Agnese  herself,  equally  resolved  not  to  await  guests  of 
this  sort,  alone  as  she  was  in  the  house,  and  with  a  little  of  the 
money  of  the  Unnamed  still  left,  had  been  hesitating  for  some 
tirfte  about  a  place  of  retreat.  The  remainder  of  those  scudi, 
which  in  the  months  of  famine  had  been  of  such  use  to  her, 
was  now  the  principal  cause  of  her  anxiety  and  irresolution, 
from,  having  heard  how,  in  the  already  invaded  countries, 
those  who  had  any  money  had  found  themselves  in  a  worse 
condition  than  anybody  else,  exposed  alike  to  the  violence  of 
the  strangers  and  the  treachery  of  their  fellow-countrymen. 
True  it  was  that  she  had  confided  to  no  one,  save  Don  Abbon- 
dio, the  wealth  that  had  fallen,  so  to  say,  into  her  lap;  to  him 
she  had  applied,  from  time  to  time,  to  change  her  a  scudo  into 
silver,  always  leaving  him  something  to  give  to  some  one  who 


430 


MANZONI 


was  poorer  than  herself.  But  hidden  riches,  particularly  with 
one  who  is  not  accustomed  to  handle  much,  keep  the  possessor 
in  continual  suspicion  of  the  suspicion  of  others.  While,  how- 
ever, she  was  going  about  hiding  here  and  there  as  best  she 
could,  what  she  could  not  manage  to  take  with  her,  and  think- 
ing about  the  scudi,  which  she  kept  sewn  up  in  her  stays,  she 
remembered  that,  together  with  them,  the  Unnamed  had  sent 
her  the  most  ample  profifers  of  service ;  she  remembered  what 
she  had  heard  related  about  his  castle's  being  in  so  secure  a 
situation,  where  nothing  could  reach  it,  against  its  owner's 
will,  but  birds;  and  she  resolved  to  go  and  seek  an  asylum 
there.  Wondering  how  she  was  to  make  herself  known  to  the 
Signor,  Don  Abbondio  quickly  occurred  to  her  mind;  who, 
after  the  conversation  we  have  related  with  the  Archbishop, 
had  always  shown  her  particular  marks  of  kindness;  the  more 
heartily,  as  he  could  do  so  without  committing  himself  to  any 
one,  and,  the  two  young  people  being  far  enough  off,  the  prob- 
ability was  also  distant  that  a  request  would  be  made  to  him 
which  would  have  put  this  kindness  to  a  very  dangerous  test. 
Thinking  that  in  such  a  confusion  the  poor  man  would  be  still 
more  perplexed  and  dismayed  than  herself,  and  that  this 
course  might  appear  desirable  also  to  him,  she  came  to  make 
the  proposal.  Finding  him  with  Perpetua,  she  suggested  it  to 
them  both  together. 

"  What  say  you  to  it,  Perpetua?"  asked  Don  Abbondio. 

"  I  say  that  it  is  an  inspiration  from  Heaven,  and  that  we 
mustn't  lose  time,  but  set  oflf  at  once  on  our  journey.'* 

"  And  then  .  .  .  ." 

"  And  then,  and  then,  when  we  get  there,  we  shall  find  our- 
selves very  well  satisfied.  It  is  well  known  now  that  the 
Signor  desires  nothing  more  than  to  benefit  his  fellow-crea- 
tures; and  Fve  no  doubt  he'll  be  glad  to  receive  us.  There, 
on  the  borders,  and  as  it  were  in  the  air,  the  soldiers  certainly 
won't  come.  And  then,  and  then,  we  shall  find  something  to 
eat  there;  for  up  m  the  mountains,  when  this  little  store  is 
gone,"  and,  so  saying,  she  placed  it  in  the  basket  upon  the 
linen,  *'  we  should  find  ourselves  very  badly  off." 

"  He's  converted,  he's  really  converted,  isn't  he?" 

"  Why  should  we  doubt  it  any  longer,  after  all  that's 
known  about  him,  nay,  after  what  you  yourself  have  seen?  " 

"  And  supposing  we  should  be  going  to  put  ourselves  in 
prison?  " 

*'  What  prison?  I  declare,  with  all  your  silly  objections 
(I  beg  your  pardon),  you'd  never  come  to  any  conclusion. 
Well  done,   Agnese!  it  was   certainly   a   capital   thought   of 


THE   BETROTHED 


431 


yours!"  And  setting  the  basket  on  a  table,  she  passed  her 
arms  through  the  straps,  and  hfted  it  upon  her  back. 

'*  Couldn't  we  find  some  man,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  "  who 
would  come  with  us  as  a  guard  to  his  curate?  If  we  should 
meet  any  ruffians,  for  there  are  plenty  of  them  roving  about, 
what  help  could  you  two  give  me?" 

"Another  plan,  to  waste  time!"  exclaimed  Perpetua. 
"  To  go  now  and  look  for  a  man,  when  everybody  has  to  mind 
himself!  Up  with  you;  go  and  get  your  breviary  and  hat, 
and  let  us  set  off." 

Don  Abbondio  obeyed,  and  soon  returned  with  the  brevi- 
ary under  his  arm,  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  his  stafif  in  his 
hand;  and  the  three  companions  went  out  by  a  little  door 
which  led  into  the  churchyard.  Perpetua  locked  it  after  her, 
rather  not  to  neglect  an  accustomed  form,  than  from  any  faith 
she  placed  in  bolts  and  door-posts,  and  put  the  key  in  her 
pocket.  Don  Abbondio  cast  a  glance  at  the  church  in  pass- 
ing, and  muttered  between  his  teeth :  "  It's  the  people's  busi- 
ness to  take  care  of  it,  for  it's  they  who  use  it.  If  they've  the 
least  love  for  their  church,  they'll  see  to  it;  if  they've  not,  why, 
it's  their  own  look-out." 

They  took  the  road  through  the  fields,  each  silently  pursu- 
ing his  way,  absorbed  in  thought  on  his  own  particular  cir- 
cumstances, and  looking  rather  narrowly  around;  more  par- 
ticularly Don  Abbondio,  who  was  in  continual  apprehension 
of  the  apparition  of  some  suspicious  figure,  or  something  not 
to  be  trusted.  However,  they  encountered  no  one:  all  the 
people  were  either  in  their  houses  to  guard  them,  to  prepare 
bundles,  and  to  put  away  goods,  or  on  the  roads  which  led  di- 
rectly to  the  mountain-heights. 

After  heaving  a  few  deep  sighs,  and  then  giving  vent  to 
his  vexation  in  an  interjection  or  two,  Don  Abbondio  began 
to  grumble  more  connectedly.  He  quarrelled  with  the  Duke 
of  Nevers,  who  might  have  been  enjoying  himself  in  France, 
and  playing  the  prince  there,  yet  was  determined  to  be  Duke 
of  Mantua  in  spite  of  the  world ;  with  the  Emperor,  who  ought 
to  have  sense  for  the  follies  of  others,  to  let  matters  take  their 
own  course,  and  not  stand  so  much  upon  punctilio;  for,  after 
all,  he  would  always  be  Emperor,  whether  Titius  or  Sempro- 
nius  were  Duke  of  Mantua;  and,  above  all,  with  the  governor, 
whose  business  it  was  to  do  everything  he  could  to  avert  these 
scourges  of  the  country,  while,  in  fact,  he  was  the  very  person 
to  invite  them — all  from  the  pleasure  he  took  in  making  war. 
"  I  wish,"  said  he,  "  that  these  gentry  were  here  to  see  and  try 
how  pleasant  it  is.     They  will  have  a  fine  account  to  render! 


432 


MANZONI 


But,  in  the  mean  while,  we  have  to  bear  it  who  have  no  blame 
in  the  matter." 

"  Do  let  these  people  alone,  for  they'll  never  come  to  help 
us,"  said  Perpetua.  "  This  is  some  of  your  usual  prating  (I 
beg  your  pardon),  which  just  comes  to  nothing.  What  rather 
gives  me  uneasiness.  .  .  ." 

''What's  the  matter?" 

Perpetua,  who  had  been  leisurely  going  over  in  her  mind, 
during  their  walk,  her  hasty  packing  and  stowing  away,  now 
began  her  lamentations  at  having  forgotten  such  a  thing,  and 
badly  concealed  such  another;  here  she  had  left  traces  which 
might  serve  as  a  clue  to  the  robbers,  there  .... 

"  Well  done!"  cried  Don  Abbondio,  gradually  sufficient- 
ly relieved  from  fear  for  his  life  to  allow  of  anxiety  for  his 
worldly  goods  and  chattels — "  well  done !  Did  you  really  do 
so?     Where  was  your  head?" 

"  What!  "  exclaimed  Perpetua,  coming  to  an  abrupt  pause 
for  a  moment,  and  resting  her  hands  on  her  sides,  as  well  as 
the  basket  she  carried  would  allow — "what!  do  you  begin 
now  to  scold  me  in  this  way,  when  it  was  you  who  almost 
turned  my  brain,  instead  of  helping  and  encouraging  me?  I 
believe  I've  taken  more  care  of  the  things  of  the  house  than  of 
my  own;  I'd  not  a  creature  to  lend  me  a  hand;  I've  been 
obliged  to  play  the  parts  of  both  Martha  and  Magdalene:  if 
anything  goes  wrong,  I've  nothing  to  say:  I've  done  more 
than  my  duty  now." 

Agnese  interrupted  these  disputes,  by  beginning,  in  her 
turn,  to  talk  about  her  own  grievances;  she  lamented  not  so 
much  the  trouble  and  dam.age,  as  finding  all  her  hopes  of  soon 
meeting  her  Lucia  dashed  to  the  ground:  for,  the  reader  may 
remember,  this  was  the  very  autumn  on  which  they  had  so 
long  calculated.  It  was  not  at  all  likely  that  Donna  Prassede 
would  come  to  reside  in  her  country-house  in  that  neighbour- 
hood under  such  circumstances:  on  the  contrary,  she  would 
more  probably  have  left  it,  had  she  happened  to  be  there,  as  all 
the  other  residents  in  the  country  were  doing. 

The  sight  of  the  different  places  they  passed  brought  these 
thoughts  to  Agnese's  mind  more  vividly,  and  increased  the 
ardour  of  her  desires.  Leaving  the  footpath  through  the 
fields,  they  had  taken  the  public  road,  the  very  same  along 
which  Agnese  had  come  when  bringing  home  her  daughter 
for  so  short  a  time,  after  having  stayed  with  her  at  the  tailor's. 
The  village  was  already  in  sight. 

"  We  will  just  say  '  How  d'ye  do? '  to  these  good  people," 
said  Agnese. 


THE   BETROTHED  433 

"Yes,  and  rest  there  a  little;  for  I  begin  to  have  had 
enough  of  this  basket;  and  to  get  a  mouthful  to  eat,  too," 
said  Perpetua. 

"  On  condition  we  don't  lose  time;  for  we  are  not  journey- 
ing for  our  amusement,"  concluded  Don  Abbondio. 

They  were  received  with  open  arms,  and  welcomed  with 
much  pleasure;  it  reminded  them  of  a  former  deed  of  benevo- 
lence. "  Do  good  to  as  many  as  you  can,"  here  remarks  our 
author,  **  and  you  will  the  more  frequently  happen  to  meet 
with  countenances  which  bring  you  pleasure." 

Agnese  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  on  embracing  the  good 
woman,  which  was  a  great  relief  to  her;  and  could  only  reply 
with  sobs  to  the  questions  which  she  and  her  husband  put 
about  Lucia. 

*'  She  is  better  oflf  than  we  are,"  said  Don  Abbondio; 
"  she's  at  Milan,  out  of  all  danger,  and  far  away  from  these 
diabolical  dangers." 

"  Are  the  Signor  Curate,  and  his  companion,  making  their 
escape,  then?"  asked  the  tailor. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  both  master  and  servant,  in  one 
breath. 

**  Oh,  how  I  pity  you  both!  " 

"  We  are  on  our  way,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  '*  to  the  cas- 
tle of  *  *  *." 

"That's  a  very  good  thought;  you'll  be  as  safe  there  as 
in  Paradise." 

"  And  you've  no  fear  here?  "  said  Don  Abbondio. 

"  ril  tell  you,  Signor  Curate :  they  won't  have  to  come 
here  to  halt,  or,  as  you  know  the  saying  is,  in  polite  language, 
in  ospitazione:  we  are  too  much  out  of  their  road,  thank 
Heaven.  At  the  worst,  there'll  only  be  a  little  party  of  for- 
agers, which  God  forbid! — but,  in  any  case,  there's  plenty  of 
time.  We  shall  first  hear  the  intelligence  from  the  other  un- 
fortunate towns,  where  they  go  to  take  up  their  quarters." 

It  was  determined  to  stop  here  and  take  a  little  rest;  and 
as  it  was  just  the  dinner-hour,  "  My  friends,"  said  the  tailor, 
"  will  do  me  the  favour  of  sharing  my  poor  table :  at  any  rate, 
you  will  have  a  hearty  welcome." 

Perpetua  said  she  had  brought  some  refreshment  with 
them;  and  after  exchanging  a  few  complimentary  speeches, 
they  agreed  to  put  all  together,  and  dine  in  company. 

The   children   gathered  with   great  glee  round   their   old 

friend  Agnese.     Very  soon,  however,  the  tailor  desired  one  of 

his  little  girls  (the  same  that  had  carried  that  gift  of  charity  to 

the  widow  Maria;  who  knows  if  any  reader  remembers  it?)to 

28 


434 


MANZONI 


go  and  shell  a  few  early  chestnuts,  which  were  deposited  in 
one  corner,  and  then  put  them  to  roast. 

"  And  you,"  said  he  to  the  little  boy,  "  go  into  the  gar- 
den, and  shake  the  peach-tree  till  some  of  the  fruit  falls,  and 
bring  them  all  here;  go.  And  you,"  said  he  to  another,  ''  go, 
climb  the  fig-tree,  and  gather  a  few  of  the  ripest  figs.  You 
know  that  business  too  well  already."  He  himself  went  to  tap 
a  little  barrel  of  wine;  his  wife  to  fetch  a  clean  table-cloth; 
Perpetua  took  out  the  provisions;  the  table  was  spread;  a 
napkin  and  earthenware  plate  were  placed  at  the  most  hon- 
ourable seat  for  Don  Abbondio,  with  a  knife  and  fork  which 
Perpetua  had  in  the  basket;  the  dinner  was  dished,  and  the 
party  seated  themselves  at  the  table,  and  partook  of  the  re- 
past, if  not  with  great  merriment,  at  least  with  much  more 
than  any  of  the  guests  had  anticipated  enjoying  that  day. 

"  What  say  you,  Signor  Curate,  to  a  turn  out  of  this  sort?  " 
said  the  tailor;  "  I  could  fancy  I  was  reading  the  history  of 
the  Moors  in  France." 

"  What  say  I?  To  think  that  even  this  trouble  should  fall 
to  my  lot!" 

*' Well,  you've  chosen  a  good  asylum,"  resumed  his  host; 
"  people  would  be  puzzled  to  get  up  there  by  force.  And 
you'll  find  company  there;  it's  already  reported  that  many 
have  retreated  thither,  and  many  more  are  daily  arriving." 

"  I  would  fain  hope,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  "  that  we  shall 
be  well  received.  I  know  this  brave  Signor;  and  when  I  once 
had  the  pleasure  of  being  in  his  company,  he  was  so  exceed- 
ingly polite." 

"  And  he  sent  word  to  me,"  said  Agnese,  "  by  his  most 
illustrious  Lordship,  that  if  ever  I  wanted  anything,  I  had  only 
to  go  to  him." 

''  A  great  and  wonderful  conversion!  "  resumed  Don  Ab- 
bondio; "  and  does  he  really  continue  to  persevere?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  tailor;  and  he  began  to  speak  at  some 
length  upon  the  holy  life  of  the  Unnamed,  and  how,  from  be- 
ing a  scourge  to  the  country,  he  had  become  its  example  and 
benefactor. 

"  And  all  those  people  he  kept  under  him  ....  that 
household  .  .  .  ."  rejoined  Don  Abbondio,  who  had  more 
than  once  heard  something  about  them,  but  had  never  been 
sufficiently  assured  of  the  truth. 

"They  are  most  of  them  dismissed,"  replied  the  tailor; 
"  and  they  who  remain  have  altered  their  habits  in  a  wonder- 
ful way!  In  short,  this  castle  has  become  like  the  Thebaid. 
You,  Signor,  understand  these  things." 


THE   BETROTHED  435 

He  then  began  to  recall,  with  Agnese,  the  visit  of  the  Car- 
dinal. *'  A  great  man/'  said  he,  **  a  great  man !  Pity  that  he 
left  us  so  hastily;  for  I  did  not,  and  could  not,  do  him  any 
honour.  How  often  I  wish  I  could  speak  to  him  again,  a 
little  more  at  my  ease!  " 

Having  left  the  table,  he  made  them  observe  an  engraved 
likeness  of  the  Cardinal,  which  he  kept  hung  up  on  one  of  the 
door-posts,  in  veneration  for  the  person,  and  also  that  he 
might  be  able  to  say  to  any  visitor,  that  the  portrait  did  not 
resemble  him;  for  he  himself  had  had  an  opportunity  of  study- 
ing the  Cardinal,  close  by,  and  at  his  leisure,  in  that  very  room. 

''Did  you  mean  this  thing  here  for  him?"  said  Agnese. 
"  It's  like  him  in  dress;  but  .  .  .  ." 

''  It  doesn't  resemble  him,  does  it?  "  said  the  tailor.  "  I 
always  say  so,  too;  but  it  bears  his  name,  if  nothing  more;  it 
serves  as  a  remembrance." 

Don  Abbondio  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  be  going;  the  tailor 
undertook  to  find  a  conveyance  to  carry  them  to  the  foot  of 
the  ascent,  and  having  gone  in  search  of  one,  shortly  returned 
to  say  that  it  was  coming.  Then,  turning  to  Don  Abbondio, 
he  added :  '*  Signor  Curate,  if  you  should  ever  like  to  take  a 
book  with  you  up  there  to  pass  away  the  time,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  serve  you  in  my  poor  way;  for  I  sometimes  amuse  myself 
a  little  with  reading.  They're  not  things  to  suit  you,  being  all 
in  the  vulgar  tongue ;  but,  perhaps  .  .  .  ." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  replied  Don  Abbondio;  "  under 
present  circumstances,  one  has  hardly  brains  enough  to  at- 
tend to  what  we  are  bid  to  read." 

While  offering  and  refusing  thanks,  and  exchanging  con- 
dolence, good  wishes,  invitations,  and  promises  to  make  an- 
other stay  there  on  their  return,  the  cart  arrived  at  the  front 
door.  Putting  in  their  baskets,  the  travelling  party  mounted 
after  them,  and  undertook,  with  rather  more  ease  and  tran- 
quillity of  mind,  the  second  half  of  their  journey. 

The  tailor  had  related  the  truth  to  Don  Abbondio  about 
the  Unnamed.  From  the  day  on  which  we  left  him,  he  had 
steadily  persevered  in  the  course  he  had  proposed  to  himself, 
atoning  for  wrongs,  seeking  peace,  relieving  the  poor,  and 
performing  every  good  work  for  which  an  opportunity  pre- 
sented itself.  The  courage  he  had  formerly  manifested  in  of- 
fence and  defence  now  showed  itself  in  abstaining  from  both 
one  and  the  other.  He  had  laid  down  all  his  weapons,  and 
always  walked  alone,  w^illing  to  encounter  the  possible  conse- 
quences of  the  many  deeds  of  violence  he  had  committed,  and 
persuaded  that  it  would  be  the  commission  of  an  additional 


436  MANZONI 

one  to  employ  force  in  defence  of  a  life  which  owed  so  much 
to  so  many  creditors;  and  persuaded,  too,  that  every  evil 
which  might  be  done  to  him  would  be  an  offence  offered 
to  God,  but,  with  respect  to  himself,  a  just  retribution; 
and  that  he,  above  all,  had  no  right  to  constitute  himself  a 
punisher  of  such  offences.  However,  he  had  continued  not 
less  inviolate  than  when  he  had  kept  in  readiness,  for  his  secu- 
rity, so  many  armed  hands,  and  his  own.  The  remembrance 
of  his  former  ferocity,  and  the  sight  of  his  present  meekness, 
one  of  which,  it  might  have  been  expected,  would  have  left  so 
many  longings  for  revenge,  while  the  other  rendered  that  re- 
venge so  easy,  conspired,  instead,  to  procure  and  maintain  for 
him  an  admiration,  which  was  the  principal  guarantee  for  his 
safety.  He  was  that  very  man  whom  no  one  could  humble, 
and  who  had  now  humbled  himself.  Every  feeling  of  ran- 
cour, therefore,  formerly  irritated  by  his  contemptuous  be- 
haviour, and  by  the  fears  of  others,  vanished  before  this  new 
humility:  they  whom  he  had  offended  had  now  obtained,  be- 
yond all  expectation,  and  without  danger,  a  satisfaction  which 
they  could  not  have  promised  themselves  from  the  most  com- 
plete revenge — the  satisfaction  of  seeing  such  a  man  mourning 
over  the  wrongs  he  had  committed,  and  participating,  so  to 
say,  in  their  indignation.  More  than  one,  whose  bitterest  and 
greatest  sorrow  had  been,  for  many  years,  that  he  saw  no  prob- 
ability of  ever  finding  himself,  in  any  instance,  stronger  than 
this  powerful  oppressor,  that  he  might  revenge  himself  for 
some  great  injury,  meeting  him  afterward  alone,  unarmed, 
and  with  the  air  of  one  who  would  offer  no  resistance,  felt  only 
an  impulse  to  salute  him  with  demonstrations  of  respect.  In 
his  voluntary  abasement,  his  countenance  and  behaviour  had 
acquired,  without  his  being  aware  of  it,  something  more  lofty 
and  noble ;  because  there  was  in  them,  more  clearly  than  ever, 
the  absence  of  all  fear.  The  most  violent  and  pertinacious 
hatred  felt,  as  it  were,  restrained  and  held  in  awe  by  the  public 
veneration  for  so  penitent  and  beneficent  a  man.  This  was 
carried  to  such  a  length,  that  he  often  found  it  difficult  to 
avoid  the  public  expression  of  it  which  was  addressed  to  him, 
and  was  obliged  to  be  careful  that  he  did  not  evince  too  plainly 
in  his  looks  and  actions  the  inward  compunction  he  felt,  nor 
abase  himself  too  much,  lest  he  should  be  too  much  exalted. 
He  had  selected  the  lowest  place  in  church,  and  woe  to  any 
one  who  should  have  attempted  to  preoccupy  it!  it  would 
have  been,  as  it  were,  usurping  a  post  of  honour.  To  have 
offended  him,  or  even  to  have  treated  him  disrespectfully, 
would  have  appeared  not  so  much  a  criminal  or  cowardly,  as 


THE   BETROTHED  437 

a  sacrilegious  act;  and  even  they  who  would  scarcely  have 
been  restrained  by  this  feeling  on  ordinary  occasions,  partici- 
pated in  it,  more  or  less. 

These  and  other  reasons  sheltered  him  also  from  the  more 
remote  animadversions  of  public  authority,  and  procured  for 
him,  even  in  this  quarter,  the  security  to  which  he  himself  had 
never  given  a  thought.  His  rank  and  family,  which  had  at  all 
times  been  some  protection  to  him,  availed  him  more  than 
ever,  now  that  personal  recommendations,  the  renown  of  his 
conversion,  were  added  to  his  already  illustrious  and  famous 
or  rather  infamous,  name.  Magistrates  and  nobles  publicly  re- 
joiced with  the  people  at  the  change;  and  it  would  have  ap- 
peared very  incongruous  to  come  forward  irritated  against  a 
man  who  was  the  subject  of  so  many  congratulations.  Be- 
sides, a  government  occupied  with  a  protracted,  and  often  un- 
prosperous,  war  against  active  and  oft-renewed  rebellions, 
would  have  been  very  well  satisfied  to  be  freed  from  the  most 
indomitable  and  irksome,  without  going  in  search  of  another: 
the  more  so,  as  this  conversion  produced  reparations  which 
the  authorities  were  not  accustomed  to  obtain,  nor  even  to 
demand.  To  molest  a  saint  seemed  no  very  good  means  to 
ward  off  the  approach  of  having  never  been  able  to  repress  a 
villain;  and  the  example  they  would  have  made  of  him  would 
have  had  no  other  effect  than  to  dissuade  others,  like  him, 
from  following  his  example.  Probably,  too,  the  share  that 
Cardinal  Federigo  had  had  in  his  conversion,  and  the  associa- 
tion of  his  name  with  that  of  the  convert,  served  the  latter  as 
a  sacred  shield.  And,  in  the  state  of  things  and  ideas  in  those 
times,  in  the  singular  relations  between  the  ecclesiastical  au- 
thority and  the  civil  power,  which  so  frequently  contended 
with  each  other  without  at  all  aiming  at  mutual  destruction, 
nay,  were  always  mingling  expressions  of  acknowledgment, 
and  protestations  of  deference,  with  hostilities,  and  which  not 
unfrequently  co-operated  toward  a  common  end,  without  ever 
making  peace — in  such  a  state  of  things,  it  might  almost  seem, 
in  a  manner,  that  the  reconciliation  of  the  first  carried  along 
with  it,  if  not  the  absolution,  at  least  the  forgetfulness,  of  the 
second;  when  the  former  alone  had  been  employed  to  pro- 
duce an  effect  equally  desired  by  both. 

Thus  that  very  individual,  who,  had  he  fallen  from  his 
eminence,  would  have  excited  emulation  among  small  and 
great  in  trampling  him  under-foot,  now,  having  spontaneously 
humbled  himself  to  the  dust,  was  reverenced  by  many,  and 
spared  by  all. 

True  it  is,  that  there  were,  indeed,  many  to  whom  this 


438 


MANZONI 


much-talked-of  change  brought  anything  but  satisfaction: 
many  hired  perpetrators  of  crime,  many  other  associates  in 
guilt,  who  thereby  lost  a  great  support  on  which  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  depend,  and  who  beheld  the  threads  of  a 
deeply-woven  plot  suddenly  snapped,  at  the  moment,  perhaps, 
when  they  were  expecting  the  intelligence  of  its  completion. 
But  we  have  already  seen  what  various  sentiments  were  awak- 
ened by  the  announcement  of  this  conversion  in  the  ruffians 
who  were  with  their  master  at  the  time,  and  heard  it  frorn  his 
own  lips:  astonishment,  grief,  depression,  vexation;  a  little, 
indeed,  of  everything,  except  contempt  and  hatred.  The 
same  was  felt  by  the  others  whom  he  kept  dispersed  at  dififer- 
ent  posts,  and  the  same  by  his  accomplices  of  higher  rank, 
when  they  first  learned  the  terrible  tidings;  and  by  all  for  the 
same  reasons.  Much  hatred,  however,  as  we  find  in  the  pas- 
sage elsewhere  cited  from  Ripamonti,  fell  to  the  share  of  the 
Cardinal  Federigo.  They  regarded  him  as  one  who  had  in- 
truded like  an  enemy  into  their  affairs;  the  Unnamed  would 
see  to  the  salvation  of  his  own  soul ;  and  nobody  had  any  right 
to  complain  of  what  he  did. 

From  time  to  time,  the  greater  part  of  the  ruffians  in  his 
household,  unable  to  accommodate  themselves  to  the  new  dis- 
cipline, and  seeing  no  probability  that  it  would  ever  change, 
gradually  took  their  departure.  Some  went  in  search  of  other 
masters,  and  found  employment,  perchance,  among  the  old 
friends  of  the  patron  they  had  left;  others  enlisted  in  some 
terzo  of  Spain  or  Mantua,  or  any  other  belligerent  power; 
some  infested  the  highways,  to  make  war  on  a  smaller  scale, 
and  on  their  own  account;  and  others,  again,  contented  them- 
selves with  going  about  as  beggars  at  liberty.  The  same 
courses  were  pursued  by  the  rest  who  had  acted  under  his  or- 
ders in  different  countries.  Of  those  who  had  contrived  to  as- 
similate themselves  to  his  new  mode  of  life,  or  had  embraced  it 
of  their  own  free  will,  the  greater  number,  natives  of  the  valley, 
returned  to  the  fields,  or  to  the  trades  which  they  had  learnt  in 
their  early  years,  and  had  afterward  abandoned  for  a  life  of 
villainy;  the  strangers  remained  in  the  castle  as  domestic 
servants;  and  both  natives  and  strangers,  as  if  blessed  at  the 
same  time  with  their  master,  lived  contentedly,  as  he  did, 
neither  giving  nor  receiving  injuries,  unarmed,  and  respected. 

But  when,  on  the  descent  of  the  German  troops,  several  fu- 
gitives from  the  threatened  or  invaded  dominions  arrived  at 
his  castle  to  request  an  asylum,  he,  rejoiced  that  the  weak 
and  oppressed  sought  refuge  within  his  walls,  which  had  so 
long  been  regarded  by  them  at  a  distance  as  an  enormous 


THE   BETROTHED 


439 


scarecrow,  received  these  exiles  with  expressions  of  gratitude 
rather  than  courtesy;  he  caused  it  to  be  proclaimed  that  his 
house  would  be  open  to  any  one  who  should  choose  to  take 
refuge  there;  and  soon  proposed  to  put,  not  only  his  castle, 
but  the  valley  itself,  into  a  state  of  defence,  if  any  of  the  Ger- 
man or  Bergamascan  troops  should  attempt  to  come  thither 
for  plunder.  He  assembled  the  servants  who  still  remained 
with  him  (like  the  verses  of  Torti,  few  and  valiant) ;  addressed 
them  on  the  happy  opportunity  that  God  was  giving  both  to 
them  and  himself  of  employing  themselves  for  once  in  aid  of 
their  fellow-creatures,  whom  they  had  so  often  oppressed  and 
terrified;  and  with  that  ancient  tone  of  command  which  ex- 
pressed a  certainty  of  being  obeyed,  announced  to  them  in 
general  what  he  wished  them  to  do,  and,  above  all,  impressed 
upon  them  the  necessity  of  keeping  a  restraint  over  them- 
selves, that  they  who  took  refuge  there  might  see  in  them  only 
friends  and  protectors.  He  then  had  brought  down  from 
one  of  the  garrets  all  the  fire-arms,  and  other  warlike  weapons, 
which  had  been  for  some  time  deposited  there,  and  distributed 
them  among  his  household;  ordered  that  all  the  peasants  and 
tenants  of  the  valley,  who  w^ere  willing  to  do  so,  should  come 
with  arms  to  the  castle;  provided  those  who  had  none  with  a 
sufficient  supply;  selected  some  to  act  as  officers,  and  placed 
others  under  their  command;  assigned  to  each  his  post  at  the 
entrance,  and  in  various  parts  of  the  valley,  on  the  ascent,  and 
at  the  gates  6f  the  castle;  and  established  the  hours  and 
methods  of  relieving  the  guards,  as  in  camp,  or  as  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  do  in  that  very  place  during  his  life  of  rebellion. 

In  one  corner  of  this  garret,  divided  from  the  rest,  were 
the  arms  which  he  alone  had  borne,  his  famous  carabine,  mus- 
kets, swords,  pistols,  huge  knives,  and  poniards,  either  lying 
on  the  ground,  or  set  up  against  the  wall.  None  of  the  serv- 
ants laid  a  finger  on  them;  but  they  determined  to  ask  the 
Signor  which  he  wished  to  be  brought  to  him.  "  Not  one  of 
them,"  replied  he;  and  whether  from  a  vow  or  intentional  de- 
sign, he  remained  the  whole  time  unarmed,  at  the  head  of  this 
species  of  garrison. 

He  employed,  at  the  same  time,  other  men  and  women  of 
his  household  or  dependents,  in  preparing  accommodation  in 
the  castle  for  as  many  persons  as  possible,  in  erecting  bed- 
steads, and  arranging  straw  beds,  mattresses,  and  sacks  stufTed 
with  straw,  in  the  apartments  which  were  now  converted  into 
dormitories.  He  also  gave  orders  that  large  stores  of  provi- 
sions should  be  brought  in  for  the  maintenance  of  the  guests 
whom  God  should  send  him,  and  who  thronged  in  in  daily  in- 


440  MANZONI 

creasing  numbers.  He,  in  the  mean  while,  was  never  station- 
ary; in  and  out  of  the  castle,  up  and  down  the  ascent,  round 
about  through  the  valley,  to  establish,  to  fortify,  to  visit  the 
different  posts,  to  see  and  to  be  seen,  to  put  and  to  keep  all  in 
order  by  his  directions,  oversight,  and  presence.  In  doors,  and 
by  the  way,  he  gave  hearty  welcomes  to  all  the  new  comers 
whom  he  happened  to  meet;  and  all,  who  had  either  seen  this 
wonderful  person  before,  or  now  beheld  him  for  the  first  time, 
gazed  at  him  in  rapture,  forgetting  for  a  moment  the  misfor- 
tunes and  alarm  which  had  driven  them  thither,  and  turning 
to  look  at  him,  when,  having  severed  himself  from  them,  he 
again  pursued  his  way. 


CHAPTER    XXX 

THOUGH  the  greatest  concourse  was  not  from  the  quar- 
ter by  which  our  three  fugitives  approached  the  val- 
ley, but  rather  at  the  opposite  entrance;  yet,  in  this 
second  half  of  their  journey,  they  began  to  meet  with 
fellow-travellers,  companions  in  misfortune,  who,  from  cross- 
roads or  by-paths,  had  issued,  or  were  issuing,  into  the 
main  road.  In  circumstances  like  these  all  who  happen  to 
meet  each  other  are  acquaintances.  Every  time  that  the  cart 
overtook  a  pedestrian  traveller,  there  was  an  exchanging  of 
questions  and  replies.  Some  had  made  their  escape,  like  our 
friends,  without  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  soldiers;  some  had 
heard  the  clanging  of  arms  and  kettle-drums;  while  others  had 
actually  beheld  them,  and  painted  them  as  the  terror-stricken 
usually  paint  the  objects  of  their  terror. 

"We  are  fortunate,  however,"  said  the  two  women;  "let 
us  thank  Heaven  for  it.  Our  goods  must  go;  but,  at  least, 
we  are  out  of  the  way." 

But  Don  Abbondio  could  not  find  so  much  to  rejoice  at; 
even  this  concourse,  and  still  more  the  far  greater  one  which 
he  heard  was  pouring  in  from  the  opposite  direction,  began  to 
throw  a  gloom  over  his  mind.  "  Oh,  what  a  state  of  things!  " 
muttered  he  to  the  women,  at  a  moment  when  there  was  no- 
body at  hand;  "oh,  what  a  state  of  things!  Don't  you  see, 
that  to  collect  so  many  people  into  one  place  is  just  the  same 
thing  as  to  draw  all  the  soldiers  here  by  force?  Everybody 
is  hiding,  everybody  carries  off  his  things!  nothing's  left  in 
the  houses:  so  they'll  think  there  must  be  some  treasures  up 
here.  They'll  surely  come!  Oh  poor  me!  What  have  I  em- 
barked in?" 

"What  should  they  have  to  come  here  for?"  said  Per- 
petua;  "they  are  obliged  to  go  straight  on  their  way.  And 
besides,  I've  always  heard  say,  that  it's  better  to  be  a  large 
party  when  there's  any  danger." 

"  A  large  party?  a  large  party?"  repeated  Don  Abbondio. 
"  Foolish  woman !     Don't  you  know  that  a  single   German 

441 


442 


MANZONI 


soldier  could  devour  a  hundred  of  such  as  they?  And  then,  if 
they  should  take  it  into  their  heads  to  play  any  pranks,  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing,  wouldn't  it,  to  find  ourselves  in  the  midst 
of  a  battle?  Oh  poor  me!  It  .would  have  been  less  danger- 
ous to  have  gone  to  the  mountains.  Why  should  everybody 
choose  to  go  to  one  place?  ....  Tiresome  folks!"  mut- 
tered he  in  a  still  lower  voice.  "  All  here;  still  coming,  com- 
ing, coming;  one  after  the  other,  like  sheep  that  have  no 
sense." 

"  In  this  way,"  said  Agnese,  '*  they  might  say  the  same 
of  us." 

**  Hush,  hush!"  said  Don  Abbondio,  "all  this  talk  does 
no  good.  What's  done  is  done:  we  are  here,  and  now  we 
must  stay  here.  It  wdll  be  as  Providence  wills:  Heaven  send 
it  may  be  good !  " 

But  his  horror  was  greatly  increased  when,  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  valley,  he  saw  a  large  body  of  armed  men,  some 
at  the  door  of  a  house,  and  others  quartered  in  the  lower 
rooms.  He  cast  a  side  glance  at  them:  they  were  not  the  same 
faces  which  it  had  been  his  lot  to  see  on  his  former  melancholy 
entrance,  or  if  there  were  any  of  the  same,  they  were  strangely 
altered;  but,  with  all  this,  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  uneasi- 
ness this  sight  gave  him. — Oh  poor  me! — thought  he. — See, 
now,  if  they  won't  play  pranks!  It  isn't  likely  it  could  be 
otherwise;  I  ought  to  have  expected  it  from  a  man  of  this 
kind.  But  what  will  he  want  to  do?  Will  he  make  war?  will 
he  play  the  king,  eh?  Oh  poor  me!  In  circumstances  when 
one  would  wish  to  bury  oneself  under-ground,  and  this  man 
seeks  every  way  of  making  himself  known,  and  attracting  at- 
tention; it  seems  as  if  he  wished  to  invite  them! 

"  You  see  now,  Signor  master,"  said  Perpetua,  addressing 
him,  "  there  are  brave  people  here  who  will  know  how  to  de- 
fend us.  Let  the  soldiers  come  now:  these  people  are  not 
like  our  clowns,  who  are  good  for  nothing  but  to  drag  their 
legs  after  them." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  in  a  low  and 
angry  tone,  "  hold  your  tongue ;  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about.  Pray  Heaven  that  the  soldiers  may  make 
haste,  or  that  they  may  never  come  to  know  what  is  doing 
here,  and  that  the  place  is  being  fortified  like  a  fortress.  Don't 
you  know  it's  the  soldiers'  business  to  take  fortresses?  They 
wish  nothing  better;  to  take  a  place  by  storm  is  to  them  like 
going  to  a  wedding;  because  all  they  find  they  take  to  them- 
selves, and  the  inhabitants  they  put  to  the  edge  of  the  sword. 
Oh  poor  me!     Well,  I'll  surely  see  if  there's  no  way  of  putting 


THE   BETROTHED 


443 


oneself  in  safety  on  some  of  these  peaks.     They  won't  reach 
me  there  in  a  battle!  oh,  they  won't  reach  me  there!  " 

''  If  you're  afraid,  too,  of  being  defended  and  helped  .  .  .  ." 
Perpetua  was  again  beginning;  but  Don  Abbondio  sharply 
interrupted  her,  though  still  in  a  suppressed  tone:  ''  Hold 
your  tongue ;  and  take  good  care  you  don't  report  what  we've 
said:  woe  unto  us  if  you  do!  Remember  that  we  must  al- 
ways put  on  a  pleasant  countenance  here,  and  approve  all 
we  see." 

At  Malanotte  they  found  another  watch  of  armed  men, 
to  whom  Don  Abbondio  submissively  took  off  his  hat,  saying, 
in  the  mean  while,  in  his  heart — Alas!  alas!  I've  certainly 
come  to  an  encampment! — Here  the  cart  stopped;  they  dis- 
mounted; Don  Abbondio  hastily  paid  and  dismissed  the 
driver;  and  with  his  two  companions  silently  mounted  the 
steep.  The  sight  of  these  places  recalled  to  his  imagination, 
and  mingled  with  his  present  troubles  the  remembrance  of 
those  which  he  had  suffered  here  once  before.  And  Agnese, 
who  had  never  seen  these  scenes,  and  who  had  drawn  to  her- 
self an  imaginary  picture,  which  presented  itself  to  her  mind 
whenever  she  thought  of  the  circumstances  that  had  occurred 
here,  on  seeing  them  now  as  they  were  in  reality,  experienced 
a  new  and  more  vivid  feeling  of  these  mournful  recollections. 
"Oh,  Signor  Curate!"  exclaimed  she,  ''to  think  that  my 
poor  Lucia  has  passed  along  this  road!  .  .  .  ." 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  you  absurd  woman?"  cried 
Don  Abbondio  in  her  ear.  "  Are  those  things  to  be  bringing 
up  here?  Don't  you  know  we  are  in  his  place?  It  was  well 
for  us  nobody  heard  you  then;  but  if  you  talk  in  this 
way  .  .  .  ." 

"Oh!"  said  Agnese;  "now  that  he's  a  saint!  .  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  be  quiet!  "  replied  Don  Abbondio  again  in  her  ear. 
"  Do  you  think  one  may  say  without  caution,  even  to  saints, 
all  that  passes  through  one's  mind?  Think  rather  of 
thanking  him  for  his  goodness  to  you." 

"Oh,  I've  already  thought  of  that:  do  you  think  I  don't 
know  even  a  little  civility?  " 

"  Civility  is,  not  to  say  things  that  may  be  disagreeable  to 
a  person,  particularly  to  one  who  is  not  accustomed  to  hear 
them.  And  understand  well,  both  of  you,  that  this  is  not  a- 
place  to  go  chatting  about,  and  saying  whatever  may  happen 
to  come  into  your  heads.  It  is  a  great  Signor's  house,  you 
know  that  already:  see  what  a  household  there  is  all  around: 
people  of  all  sorts  come  here:  so  be  prudent,  if  you  can; 
weigh  your  words;  and,  above  all,  let  there  be  few  of  them, 


444  MANZONI 

and  only  when  there  is  a  necessity :  one  can't  get  wrong  when 
one  is  silent." 

"  You  do  far  worse,  with  all  your  .  .  .  ."  Perpetua  began: 
but,  "  Hush!  "  cried  Don  Abbondio,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  at 
the  same  time  hastily  taking  off  his  hat,  and  making  a  pro- 
found bow:  for,  on  looking  up,  he  had  discovered  the  Un- 
named coming  down  to  meet  them.  He,  on  his  part,  had  no- 
ticed and  recognized  Don  Abbondio,  and  was  now  hastening 
to  welcome  him. 

"  Signor  Curate,"  said  he,  when  he  had  reached  him,  "  I 
should  have  liked  to  offer  you  my  house  on  a  pleasanter  oc- 
casion; but,  under  any  circumstances,  I  am  exceedingly  glad 
to  be  able  to  be  of  some  service  to  you." 

"  Trusting  in  your  illustrious  Lordship's  great  kindness," 
replied  Don  Abbondio,  "  I  have  ventured  to  come,  under 
these  melancholy  circumstances,  to  intrude  upon  you:  and,  as 
your  illustrious  Lordship  sees,  I  have  also  presumed  to  bring 
company  with  me.     This  is  my  housekeeper  .  .  .  ." 

''  She  is  welcome,"  said  the  Unnamed. 

"  And  this,"  continued  Don  Abbondio,  **  is  a  woman  to 
whom  your  Lordship  has  already  been  very  good:  the  mother 
of  that  ....  of  that  .  .  .  ." 

*'  Of  Lucia,"  said  Agnese. 

''Of  Lucia!"  exclaimed  the  Unnamed,  turning  with  a 
look  of  shame  toward  Agnese.  "  Been  very  good,  I !  Im- 
mortal God!  You  are  very  good  to  me,  to  come  here  .... 
to  me  ....  to  this  house.  You  are  most  heartily  welcome. 
You  bring  a  blessing  along  with  you." 

-  ""  Oh,  sir,"  said  Agnese,  '*  I  come  to  give  you  trouble.  I 
have,  too,"  continued  she,  going  very  close  to  his  ear,  *'  to 
thank  you.  .  .  ." 

The  Unnamed  interrupted  these  words,  by  anxiously 
making  inquiries  about  Lucia;  and  having  heard  the  intelli- 
gence they  had  to  give,  he  turned  to  accompany  his  new 
guests  to  the  castle,  and  persisted  in  doing  so,  in  spite  of  their 
ceremonious  opposition.  Agnese  cast  a  glance  at  the  curate, 
which  meant  to  say — You  see,  now%  whether  there's  any  need 
for  you  to  interpose  between  us  with  your  advice ! 

"Have  they  reached  your  parish?"  asked  the  Unnamed, 
addressing  Don  Abbondio. 

"  No,  Signor;  for  I  would  not  willingly  await  the  arrival 
of  these  devils,"  replied  he.  ''  Heaven  knows  if  I  should 
have  been  able  to  escape  alive  out  of  their  hands,  and  come 
to  trouble  your  illustrious  Lordship." 

"  Well,  well,  you  may  take  courage,"  resumed  the  noble- 


THE   BETROTHED 


445 


man,  "  for  you  are  now  safe  enough.  They'll  not  come  up 
here;  and  if  they  should  wish  to  make  the  trial,  we're  ready 
to  receive  them." 

"  We'll  hope  they  won't  come,"  said  Don  Abbondio.  "  I 
hear,"  added  he,  pointing  with  his  finger  toward  the  moun- 
tains which  enclosed  the  valley  on  the  opposite  side,  "  I  hear 
that  another  band  of  soldiers  is  wandering  about  in  that  quar- 
ter, too,  but  ....  but  .  .  .  ." 

'*  True,"  replied  the  Unnamed;  "but  you  need  have  no 
fear:  we  are  ready  for  them  also."  '*  Between  two  fires,  in  the 
mean  while,"  said  Don  Abbondio  to  himself,  "  exactly  between 
two  fires.  Where  have  I  suffered  myself  to  be  drawn?  and  by 
two  silly  women!  And  this  man  seems  actually  in  his  ele- 
ment in  it  all !     Oh,  what  people  there  are  in  the  world !  " 

On  entering  the  castle,  the  Signor  had  Agnese  and  Per- 
petua  conducted  to  an  apartment  in  the  quarter  assigned  to 
the  women,  which  occupied  three  of  the  four  sides  of  the  inner 
court,  in  the  back  part  of  the  building,  and  was  situated  on  a 
jutting  and  isolated  rock,  overhanging  a  precipice.  The  men 
were  lodged  in  the  sides  of  the  other  court  to  the  right  and  left, 
and  in  that  which  looked  on  the  esplanade.  The  central 
block,  which  separated  the  two  quadrangles,  and  afforded  a 
passage  from  one  to  the  other  through  a  wide  archway  oppo- 
site the  principal  gate,  was  partly  occupied  with  provisions, 
and  partly  served  as  a  depository  for  any  little  property  the 
refugees  might  wish  to  secure  in  this  retreat.  In  the  quarters 
appropriated  to  the  men,  was  a  small  apartment  destined  for 
the  use  of  any  clergy  who  might  happen  to  take  refuge  there. 
Hither  the  Unnamed  himself  conducted  Don  Abbondio,  who 
was  the  first  to  take  possession  of  it. 

Three  or  four  and  twenty  days  our  fugitives  remained  at 
the  castle,  in  a  state  of  continual  bustle,  forming  a  large  com- 
pany, which  at  first  received  constant  additions,  but  without 
any  incidents  of  importance.  Perhaps,  however,  not  a  single 
day  passed  without  their  resorting  to  arms.  Lansquenets 
were  coming  in  this  direction;  cappelletti  had  been  seen  in 
that.  Every  time  this  intelligence  was  brought,  the  Unnamed 
sent  men  to  reconnoitre;  and,  if  there  were  any  necessity,  took 
with  him  some  whom  he  kept  in  readiness  for  the  purpose,  and 
accompanied  them  beyond  the  valley,  in  the  direction  of  the 
indicated  danger.  And  it  was  a  singular  thing  to  behold  a 
band  of  brigands,  armed  cap-a-pie,  and  conducted  like  sol- 
diers by  one  who  was  himself  unarmed.  Generally  it  proved 
to  be  only  foragers  and  disbanded  pillagers,  who  contrived  to 
make  off  before  they  were   taken  by   surprise.     But  once, 


446  MANZONI 

when  driving  away  some  of  these,  to  teach  them  not  to  come 
again  into  that  neighbourhood,  the  Unnamed  received  intelH- 
gence  that  an  adjoining  village  was  invaded  and  given  up  to 
plunder.  They  were  soldiers  of  various  corps,  who,  having 
loitered  behind  to  hunt  for  booty,  had  formed  themselves  into 
a  band,  and  made  a  sudden  irruption  into  the  lands  surround- 
ing that  where  the  army  had  taken  up  its  quarters;  despoiling 
the  inhabitants,  and  even  levying  contributions  from  them. 
The  Unnamed  made  a  brief  harangue  to  his  followers,  and  bid 
them  march  forward  to  the  invaded  village. 

They  arrived  unexpectedly:  the  plunderers,  who  had 
thought  of  nothing  but  taking  the  spoil,  abandoned  their  prey 
in  the  midst,  on  seeing  men  in  arms,  and  ready  for  battle,  com- 
ing down  upon  them,  and  hastily  took  to  flight,  without  wait- 
ing for  one  another,  in  the  direction  whence  they  had  come. 
He  pursued  them  for  a  little  distance;  then,  making  a  halt, 
waited  a  while  to  see  if  any  fresh  object  presented  itself,  and 
at  length  returned  homeward.  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
the  shouts  of  applause  and  benediction  which  accompanied 
the  troop  of  deliverers  and  its  leader,  on  passing  through  the 
rescued  village. 

Among  the  multitude  of  refugees  assembled  in  the  castle, 
strangers  to  each  other,  and  differing  in  rank,  habits,  sex,  and 
age,  no  disturbance  of  any  moment  occurred.  The  Unnamed 
had  placed  guards  in  various  posts,  all  of  whom  endeavoured 
to  ward  ofif  any  unpleasantness  with  the  care  usually  exhibited 
by  those  who  are  held  accountable  for  any  misdemeanours. 

He  had  also  requested  the  clergy,  and  others  of  most  au- 
thority among  those  to  whom  he  afforded  shelter,  to  walk 
round  the  place,  and  keep  a  watch;  and,  as  often  as  he  could, 
he  himself  went  about  to  show  himself  in  every  direction, 
while,  even  in  his  absence,  the  remembrance  of  who  was  in  the 
house  served  as  a  restraint  to  those  who  needed  it.  Besides, 
they  were  all  people  that  had  fled  from  danger,  and  hence  gen- 
erally inclined  to  peace:  while  the  thoughts  of  their  homes 
and  property,  and  in  some  cases,  of  relatives  and  friends  whom 
they  had  left  exposed  to  danger,  and  the  tidings  they  heard 
from  without,  depressed  their  spirits,  and  thus  maintained  and 
constantly  increased  this  disposition. 

There  were,  however,  some  unburdened  spirits,  some  men 
of  firmer  mould  and  stronger  courage,  who  tried  to  pass  these 
days  merrily.  They  had  abandoned  their  homes  because  they 
were  not  strong  enough  to  defend  them;  but  they  saw  no  use 
in  weeping  and  sighing  over  things  that  could  not  be  helped, 
or  in  picturing  to  themselves,  and  contemplating  beforehand, 


THE   BETROTHED  447 

in  imagination,  the  havoc  they  would  only  too  soon  witness 
with  their  own  eyes.  Families  acquainted  with  each  other 
had  left  their  homes  at  the  same  time,  and  had  met  with  each 
other  again  in  this  retreat;  new  friendships  were  formed;  and 
the  multitude  were  divided  into  parties,  according  to  their  sev- 
eral habits  and  dispositions.  They  who  had  money  and  con- 
sideration went  to  dine  down  in  the  valley,  where  eating- 
houses  and  inns  had  been  hastily  run  up  for  the  occasion:  in 
some,  mouthfuls  were  interchanged  with  lamentations,  or  no 
subject  but  their  misfortunes  was  allowed  to  be  discussed;  in 
others,  misfortunes  were  never  remembered,  unless  it  were  to 
say  that  they  must  not  think  about  them.  To  those  who  either 
could  not,  or  would  not,  bear  part  of  the  expenses,  bread,  soup, 
and  wine  were  distributed  in  the  castle;  besides  other  tables 
which  were  laid  out  daily  for  those  whom  the  Signor  had  ex- 
pressly invited  to  partake  of  them;  and  our  acquaintances 
were  among  this  number. 

Agnese  and  Perpetua,  not  to  eat  the  bread  of  idleness,  had 
begged  to  be  employed  in  the  services  which,  in  so  large  an  es- 
tablishment, must  have  been  required;  and  in  these  occupa- 
tions they  spent  a  great  part  of  the  day,  while  the  rest  was 
passed  in  chatting  with  some  friends,  whose  acquaintance  they 
had  made,  or  with  the  unfortunate  Don  Abbondio.  This  in- 
dividual, though  he  had  nothing  to  do,  was,  nevertheless, 
never  afflicted  with  ennui:  his  fears  kept  him  company.  The 
direct  dread  of  an  assault  had,  I  believe,  subsided:  or,  if  it 
still  remained,  it  was  one  which  gave  him  the  least  uneasiness; 
because,  whenever  he  bestowed  upon  it  the  slightest  thought, 
he  could  not  help  seeing  how  unfounded  it  was.  But  the  idea 
of  the  surrounding  country,  inundated  on  both  sides  with 
brutal  soldiers,  the  armour  and  armed  men  he  had  constantly 
before  his  eyes,  the  remembrance  that  he  was  in  a  castle,  to- 
gether with  the  thought  of  the  many  things  that  might  happen 
any  moment  in  such  a  situation,  all  contributed  to  keep  him 
in  indistinct,  general,  constant  alarm;  let  alone  the  anxiety 
he  felt  when  he  thought  of  his  poor  home.  During  the  whole 
time  he  remained  in  this  asylum,  he  never  once  went  more 
than  a  stone's  throw  from  the  building,  nor  ever  set  foot  on 
the  descent;  his  sole  walk  was  to  go  out  upon  the  esplanade, 
and  pace  up  and  down,  sometimes  to  one,  sometimes  to  the 
other  side  of  the  castle,  there  to  look  down  among  the  cliflfs 
and  precipices,  in  hopes  of  discovering  some  practicable  pas- 
sage, some  kind  of  footpath,  by  which  he  might  go  in  search 
of  a  hiding-place,  in  case  of  being  very  closely  pressed.  On 
meeting  any  of  his  companions  in  this  asylum,  he  failed  not 


448  MANZONI 

to  make  a  profound  bow,  or  respectful  salutation,  but  he  as- 
sociated with  very  few;  his  most  frequent  conversations  were 
with  the  two  women,  as  we  have  related;  and  to  them  he 
poured  out  all  his  griefs,  at  the  risk  of  being  sometimes  si- 
lenced by  Perpetua,  and  completely  put  to  shame  even  by  Ag- 
nese.  At  table,  however,  where  he  sat  but  little,  and  talked 
still  less,  he  heard  the  news  of  the  terrible  march  which  arrived 
daily  at  the  castle,  either  reported  from  village  to  village,  and 
from  mouth  to  mouth,  or  brought  thither  by  some  one  who  had 
at  first  determined  to  remain  at  home,  and  had,  after  all,  made 
his  escape,  without  having  been  able  to  save  anything,  and 
probably,  also,  after  receiving  considerable  ill-treatment;  and 
every  day  brought  with  it  some  fresh  tale  of  misfortune. 
Some,  who  were  news-mongers  by  profession,  diligently  col- 
lected the  different  rumours,  weighed  all  the  various  accounts, 
and  then  gave  the  substance  of  them  to  the  others.  They  dis- 
puted which  were  the  most  destructive  regiments,  and  whether 
infantry  or  cavalry  were  the  worst;  they  reported,  as  well  as 
they  could,  the  names  of  some  of  the  leaders;  related  some  of 
their  past  enterprises,  specified  the  places  of  halting,  and  the 
daily  marches.  That  day  such  a  regiment  would  spread  over 
such  a  district;  to-morrow,  it  would  ravage  such  another, 
where,  in  the  mean  while,  another  had  been  playing  the  very 
devil  and  worse.  They  chiefly,  however,  sought  information 
and  kept  count  of  the  regiments  which  from  time  to  time 
crossed  the  bridge  of  Lecco,  because  these  might  be  consid- 
ered as  fairly  gone,  and  really  out  of  the  territory.  The  cav- 
alry of  Wallenstein  passed  it,  and  the  infantry  of  Marradas; 
the  cavalry  of  Anlzalt,  and  the  infantry  under  Brandeburgo; 
the  troops  of  Montecuccoli,  then  those  of  Ferrari;  then  fol- 
lowed Altringer,  then  Furstenburg,  then  Colloredo ;  after  them 
came  the  Croatians,  Torquato  Conti,  and  this,  that,  and  the 
other  leader;  and  last  of  all,  in  Heaven's  good  time,  came  at 
length  Galasso.  The  flying  squadron  of  Venetians  made 
their  final  exit;  and  the  whole  country,  on  either  hand,  was 
once  more  set  at  liberty.  Those  belonging  to  the  invaded  vil- 
lages which  were  first  cleared  of  their  ravagers,  had  already 
begun  to  evacuate  the  castle,  and  every  day  people  continued 
to  leave  the  place:  as  after  an  autumnal  storm,  the  birds  may 
be  seen  issuing  on  every  side  from  the  leafy  branches  of  a 
great  tree,  where  they  had  sought  a  shelter  from  its  fury.  Our 
three  refugees  were,  perhaps,  the  last  to  take  their  departure, 
owing  to  Don  Abbondio's  extreme  reluctance  to  run  the  risk, 
if  they  returned  home  immediately,  of  meeting  some  strag- 
gling soldiers  who  might  still  be  loitering  in  the  rear  of  the 


THE   BETROTHED  449 

army.  It  was  in  vain  Perpetua  repeated  and  insisted,  that  the 
longer  they  delayed,  the  greater  opportunities  they  afforded  to 
the  thieves  of  the  neighbourhood  to  enter  the  house  and  finish 
the  business:  whenever  the  safety  of  life  was  at  stake,  Don 
Abbondio  invariably  gained  the  day;  unless,  indeed,  the  im- 
minence of  the  danger  were  such  as  to  deprive  him  of  the 
power  of  self-defence. 

On  the  day  fixed  for  their  departure,  the  Unnamed  had  a 
carriage  in  readiness  at  Malanotte,  in  which  he  had  already 
placed  a  full  supply  of  clothes  for  Agnese.  Drawing  her  a 
little  aside,  he  also  forced  her  to  accept  a  small  store  of  scudi, 
to  compensate  for  the  damages  she  would  find  at  home;  al- 
though, striking  her  breast,  she  kept  repeating  that  she  had 
still  some  of  the  first  supply  left. 

"  When  you  see  your  poor  good  Lucia  .  .  .  ."  said  he,  the 
last  thing,  **  I  am  already  convinced  she  prays  for  me,  be- 
cause I  have  done  her  so  much  wrong;  tell  her,  then,  that  I 
thank  her,  and  trust  in  God  her  prayers  will  return,  also,  in 
equal  blessings  upon  her  own  head." 

He  then  insisted  upon  accompanying  his  three  guests  to 
the  carriage.  The  obsequious  and  extravagant  acknowledg- 
ments of  Don  Abbondio,  and  the  complimentary  speeches  of 
Perpetua,  we  leave  to  the  reader's  imagination.  They  set  off, 
made  a  short  stay,  according  to  agreement,  at  the  tailor's  cot- 
tage, and  there  heard  a  hundred  particulars  of  the  march,  the 
usual  tale  of  theft,  violence,  destruction,  and  obscenity;  but, 
there,  fortunately,  none  of  the  soldiery  had  been  seen. 

"Ah,  Signor  Curate!"  said  the  tailor,  as  he  offered  him 
his  arm  to  assist  him  again  into  the  carriage,  "  they'll  have 
matter  enough  for  a  printed  book  in  a  scene  of  destruction  like 
this." 

As  they  advanced  a  little  on  their  journey,  our  travellers 
began  to  witness,  with  their  own  eyes,  something  of  what  they 
had  heard  described:  vineyards  despoiled,  not  as  by  the  vint- 
ager, but  as  though  a  storm  of  wind  and  hail  combined  had 
exerted  their  utmost  energies;  branches  strewn  upon  the 
earth,  broken  off,  and  trampled  under-foot;  stakes  torn  up, 
the  ground  trodden  and  covered  with  chips,  leaves,  and  twigs; 
trees  uprooted,  or  their  branches  lopped;  hedges  broken 
down;  stiles  carried  away.  In  the  villages,  too,  doors  shiv- 
ered to  pieces,  windows  destroyed,  straw,  rags,  rubbish  of  all 
kinds,  lying  in  heaps,  or  scattered  all  over  the  pavement;  a 
close  atmosphere,  and  horrid  odours  of  a  more  revolting  na- 
ture proceeding  from  the  houses;  some  of  the  villagers  busy 
in  sweeping  out  the  accumulation  of  filth  within  them;  others 
29 


450 


MANZONI 


in  repairing  the  doors  and  windows  as  they  best  could;  some 
again  weeping  in  groups,  and  indulging  in  lamentations  to- 
gether; and  as  the  carriage  drove  through,  hands  stretched 
out  on  both  sides  at  the  doors  of  the  vehicle  imploring  alms. 

With  these  scenes,  now  before  their  eyes,  now  pictured  in 
their  minds,  and  with  the  expectation  of  finding  their  own 
houses  in  just  the  same  state,  they  at  length  arrived  there,  and 
found  that  their  expectations  were  indeed  realized. 

Agnese  deposited  her  bundles  in  one  corner  of  her  little 
yard,  the  cleanest  spot  that  remained  about  the  house;  she 
then  set  herself  to  sweep  it  thoroughly,  and  collect  and  re- 
arrange the  little  furniture  which  had  been  left  her;  she  got  a 
carpenter  and  blacksmith  to  come  and  mend  the  doors  and 
window-frames;  and  then,  unpacking  the  linen  which  had 
been  given  her,  and  secretly  counting  over  her  fresh  store  of 
coins,  she  exclaimed  to  herself — '*  I've  fallen  upon  my  feet! 
God,  and  the  Madonna,  and  that  good  Signor,  be  thanked!  I 
may  indeed  say,  I've  fallen  upon  my  feet!  " 

Don  Abbondio  and  Perpetua  entered  the  house  without 
the  aid  of  keys,  and  at  every  step  they  took  in  the  passage  en- 
countered a  fetid  odour,  a  poisonous  effluvium,  which  almost 
drove  them  back.  Holding  their  noses,  they  advanced  to  the 
kitchen-door;  entered  on  tip-toe,  carefully  picking  their  way 
to  avoid  the  most  disgusting  parts  of  the  filthy  straw  which 
covered  the  ground,  and  cast  a  glance  around.  Nothing  was 
left  whole;  but  relics  and  fragments  of  what  once  had  been, 
both  here  and  in  other  parts  of  the  house,  were  to  be  seen  in 
every  corner;  quills  and  feathers  from  Perpetua's  fowls,  scraps 
of  linen,  leaves  out  of  Don  Abbondio's  calendars,  remnants  of 
kitchen  utensils;  all  heaped  together,  or  scattered  in  confusion 
upon  the  floor.  On  the  hearth  might  be  discovered  tokens  of 
a  riotous  scene  of  destruction,  like  a  multitude  of  ordinary 
ideas  scattered  through  a  widely-diffused  period  by  a  pro- 
fessed orator.  These  were  the  vestiges  of  extinguished  fag- 
gots and  billets  of  wood,  which  showed  them  to  have  been 
once  the  arm  of  a  chair,  a  table-foot,  the  door  of  a  cupboard, 
a  bed-post,  or  a  stave  of  the  little  cask  which  contained  the 
wine  so  beneficial  to  Don  Abbondio's  stomach.  The  rest  was 
cinders  and  coals;  and  with  some  of  these  very  coals,  the 
spoilers,  by  way  of  recreation,  had  scrawled  on  the  walls  dis- 
torted figures,  doing  their  best,  by  the  help  of  sundry  square 
caps,  shaven  crowns,  and  large  bands,  to  represent  priests 
studiously  exhibited  in  all  manner  of  horrible  and  ludicrous 
attitudes:  an  intention,  certainly,  in  which  such  artists  could 
not  possibly  have  failed. 


THE   BETROTHED  45 1 

"Ah,  the  dirty  pigs!"  exclaimed  Perpetua.  **  Ah,  the 
thieves!"  cried  Don  Abbondio;  and,  as  if  making  their  es- 
cape, they  went  out  by  another  door,  that  led  into  the  garden. 
Once  more  drawing  their  breath,  they  went  straight  up  to  the 
fig-tree;  but,  even  before  reaching  it,  they  discovered  that  the 
ground  had  been  disturbed,  and  both  together  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation of  dismay,  and,  on  coming  up,  they  found  in  truth, 
instead  of  the  dead,  only  the  empty  tomb.  This  gave  rise  to 
some  disputes.  Don  Abbondio  began  to  scold  Perpetua  for 
having  hidden  it  so  badly:  it  may  be  imagined  whether  she 
would  fail  to  retort:  and  after  indulging  in  mutual  recrimina- 
tion till  they  were  tired,  they  returned,  with  many  a  lingering 
look  cast  back  at  the  empty  hole,  grumbling  into  the  house. 
They  found  things  nearly  in  the  same  state  everywhere. 
Long  and  diligently  they  worked  to  cleanse  and  purify  the 
house,  the  more  so  as  it  was  then  extremely  difficult  to  get 
any  help;  and  they  remained  for  I  know  not  what  length  of 
time,  as  if  in  encampment,  arranging  things  as  they  best  could 
— and  bad  was  the  best — and  gradually  restoring  doors,  furni- 
ture, and  utensils,  with  money  lent  to  them  by  Agnese. 

In  addition  to  these  grievances,  this  disaster  was,  for  some 
time  afterward,  the  source  of  many  other  very  ticklish  disputes ; 
for  Perpetua,  by  dint  of  asking,  peeping,  and  hunting  out,  had 
come  to  know  for  certain  that  some  of  her  master's  household 
goods,  which  were  thought  to  have  been  carried  off  or  de- 
stroyed by  the  soldiers,  were,  instead,  safe  and  sound  with 
some  people  in  the  neighbourhood;  and  she  was  continually 
tormenting  her  master  to  make  a  stir  about  them,  and  claim 
his  own.  A  chord  more  odious  to  Don  Abbondio  could  not 
have  been  touched,  considering  that  his  property  was  in  the 
hands  of  ruffians,  of  that  species  of  persons,  that  is  to  say,  with 
whom  he  had  it  most  at  heart  to  remain  at  peace. 

"  But  if  I  don't  want  to  know  about  these  things  .  .  .  ." 
said  he.  "  How  often  am  I  to  tell  you  that  what  is  gone,  is 
gone?  Am  I  to  be  harassed  in  this  way,  too,  because  my 
house  has  been  robbed?" 

''  I  tell  you,"  replied  Perpetua,  "  that  you  would  let  the 
very  eyes  be  eaten  out  of  your  head.  To  rob  others  is  a  sin, 
but  with  you,  it  is  a  sin  not  to  rob  you." 

"Very  proper  language  for  you,  certainly!"  answered 
Don  Abbondio.     "Will  you  hold  your  tongue?" 

Perpetua  did  hold  her  tongue,  but  not  so  directly;  and 
even  then  everything  was  a  pretext  for  beginning  again;  so 
that  the  poor  man  w^as  at  last  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  sup- 
pressing every  lamentation  on  the  lack  of  this  or  that  article  of 


452 


MANZONI 


furniture,  at  the  moment  he  most  wanted  to  give  vent  to  his 
regrets;  for  more  than  once  he  had  been  doomed  to  hear: 
"  Go  seek  it  at  such  a  one's,  who  has  it,  and  who  wouldn't  have 
kept  it  till  now,  if  he  hadn't  had  to  deal  with  such  an  easy 
man." 

Another  and  more  vivid  cause  of  disquietude  was  the  in- 
telligence that  soldiers  continued  daily  to  be  passing  in  con- 
fusion, as  he  had  too  well  conjectured;  hence  he  was  ever  in 
apprehension  of  seeing  a  man,  or  even  a  band  of  men,  arriving 
at  his  door,  which  he  had  had  repaired  in  haste  the  first  thing, 
and  which  he  kept  barred  with  the  greatest  precaution;  but, 
thank  Heaven!  this  catastrophe  never  occurred.  These  ter- 
rors, however,  were  not  appeased,  when  a  new  one  was  added 
to  their  number. 

But  here  we  must  leave  the  poor  man  on  one  side:  for 
other  matters  are  now  to  be  treated  of  than  his  private  appre- 
hensions, the  misfortunes  of  a  few  villages,  or  a  transient  dis- 
aster. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE  plague,  which  the  Board  of  Health  had  feared 
might  enter  with  the  German  troops  into  the  Milanese, 
had  entered  it  indeed,  as  is  well  known;  and  it  is  like- 
wise well  known,  that  it  paused  not  here,  but  invaded 
and  ravaged  a  great  part  of  Italy.  Following  the  thread  of 
our  story,  we  now  come  to  relate  the  principal  incidents  of  this 
calamity  in  the  Milanese,  or  rather  in  Milan  almost  exclusive- 
ly: for  almost  exclusively  of  the  city  do  the  records  of  the 
times  treat,  nearly  as  it  always  and  everywhere  happens,  for 
good  reasons  or  bad.  And,  to  say  the  truth,  it  is  not  only  our 
object,  in  this  narrative,  to  represent  the  state  of  things  in 
which  our  characters  will  shortly  be  placed;  but  at  the  same 
time  to  develop,  as  far  as  may  be  in  so  limited  a  space,  and 
from  our  pen,  an  event  in  the  history  of  our  country  more  cele- 
brated than  well  known. 

Of  the  many  contemporary  accounts,  there  is  not  one 
which  is  sufficient  by  itself  to  convey  a  distinct  and  connected 
idea  of  it;  as  there  is  not,  perhaps,  one  which  may  not  give  us 
some  assistance  in  forming  that  idea.  In  every  one,  not  ex- 
cepting that  of  Ripamonti,  which  considerably  exceeds  all  the 
rest,  both  in  copiousness  and  in  its  selection  of  facts,  and  still 
more  in  its  method  of  viewing  them,  essential  facts  are  omitted 
which  are  recorded  in  others;  in  every  one  there  are  errors  of 
material  importance,  which  may  be  detected  and  rectified  with 
the  help  of  some  other,  or  of  the  few  printed  or  manuscript 
facts  of  public  authority  which  still  remain ;  and  we  may  often 
discover  in  one,  those  causes,  the  effects  of  which  were  found 
partially  developed  in  another.  In  all,  too,  a  strange  confu- 
sion of  times  and  things  prevailed,  and  a  perpetual  wandering 
backward  and  forward,  as  it  were  at  random,  without  design, 
special  or  general:  the  character,  by  the  by,  of  books  of  all 
classes  In  those  days,  chiefly  among  such  as  were  written  in  the 
vulgar  tongue,  at  least  in  Italy;  whether,  also,  in  the  rest  of  Eu- 
rope, the  learned  will  know,  and  we  shrewdly  suspect  it  so  to 
have  been.     No  writer  of  later  date  has  attempted  to  examine 

453 


454 


MANZONI 


and  compare  these  memoirs,  with  the  view  of  extracting 
thence  a  connected  series  of  events,  a  history  of  this  plague; 
so  that  the  idea  generaUy  formed  of  it  must  necessarily  be 
very  uncertain  and  somewhat  confused,  a  vague  idea  of  great 
evils  and  great  errors  (and  assuredly  there  were  both  one  and 
the  other  beyond  what  can  possibly  be  imagined) — an  idea 
composed  more  of  opinions  than  of  facts,  mingled,  indeed, 
with  a  few  scattered  events,  but  unconnected,  sometimes,  with 
their  most  characteristic  circumstances,  and  without  distinc- 
tion of  time,  that  is  to  say,  without  perception  of  cause  and 
effect,  of  course  and  progress.  We,  having  examined  and 
compared,  with  at  least  much  diligence,  all  the  printed  ac- 
counts, more  than  one  unpublished  one,  and  (in  comparison  of 
the  few  that  remain  on  the  subject)  many  oiBcial  documents, 
have  endeavoured  to  do,  not,  perhaps,  all  that  is  needed,  but 
something  which  has  not  hitherto  been  done.  We  do  not 
purpose  relating  every  public  act,  nor  all  the  results  worthy, 
in  some  degree,  of  remembrance.  Still  less  do  we  pretend  to 
render  needless  to  such  as  would  gain  a  more  complete  ac- 
quaintance with  the  subject,  the  perusal  of  the  original  writ- 
ings: we  are  too  well  aware  what  lively,  peculiar,  and,  so  to 
say,  incommunicable  force  invariably  belongs  to  works  of  that 
kind,  in  whatever  manner  designed  and  executed.  We  have 
merely  endeavoured  to  distinguish  and  ascertain  the  most 
general  and  important  facts,  to  arrange  them  in  their  real  or- 
der of  succession,  so  far  as  the  matter  and  the  nature  of  them 
will  allow,  to  observe  their  reciprocal  efifect,  and  thus  to  give, 
for  the  present,  and  until  some  one  else  shall  do  better,  a  suc- 
cinct, but  plain  and  continuous,  account  of  this  calamity. 

Throughout  the  whole  track,  then,  of  the  territory  trav- 
ersed by  "the  army,  corpses  might  be  found  either  in  the 
houses,  or  lying  upon  the  highway.  Very  shortly,  single  in- 
dividuals, or  whole  families,  began  to  sicken  and  die  of  violent 
and  strange  complaints,  with  symptoms  unknown  to  the  great- 
er part  of  those  who  were  then  alive.  There  were  only  a  few 
who  had  ever  seen  them  before :  the  few,  that  is,  who  could  re- 
member the  plague  which,  fifty-three  years  previously,  had 
desolated  a  great  part  of  Italy  indeed,  but  especially  the 
Milanese,  where  it  was  then,  and  is  still,  called  the  plague  of 
San  Carlo.  So  powerful  is  Charity!  Among  the  various  and 
awful  recollections  of  a  general  calamity,  she  could  cause  that 
of  one  individual  to  predominate;  because  she  had  inspired 
him  with  feelings  and  actions  more  memorable  even  than  the 
evils  themselves;  she  could  set  him  up  in  men's  minds  as  a 
symbol  of  all  these  events,  because  in  all  she  had  urged  him 


THE   BETROTHED 


455 


onward,  and  held  him  up  to  view  as  guide,  and  helper,  ex- 
ample, and  voluntary  victim;  and  could  frame  for  him,  as  it 
were,  an  emblematical  device  out  of  a  public  calamity,  and 
name  it  after  him  as  though  it  had  been  a  conquest  or  dis- 
covery. 

The  oldest  physician  of  his  time,  Lodovico  Settala,  who 
had  not  only  seen  that  plague,  but  had  been  one  of  its  most  ac- 
tive and  intrepid,  and,  though  then  very  young,  most  cele- 
brated successful  opponents;  and  who  now,  in  strong  suspi- 
cion of  this,  was  on  the  alert,  and  busily  collecting  information, 
reported,  on  the  20th  of  October,  in  the  Council  of  the  Board 
of  Health,  that  the  contagion  had  undoubtedly  broken  out  in 
the  village  of  Chiuso,  the  last  in  the  territory  of  Lecco,  and  on 
the  confines  of  the  Bergamascan  district.  No  resolution, 
however,  was  taken  on  this  intelligence,  as  appears  from  the 
"  Narrative  "  of  Tadino. 

Similar  tidings  arrived  from  Lecco  and  Bellano.  The 
Board  then  decided  upon,  and  contented  themselves  with  de- 
spatching a  commissioner,  who  should  take  a  physician  from 
Como  by  the  way,  and  accompany  him  on  a  visit  to  the  places 
which  had  been  signified.  ''  Both  of  them,  either  from  igno- 
rance or  some  other  reason,  suffered  themselves  to  be  persuad- 
ed by  an  old  ignorant  barber  of  Bellano  that  this  sort  of  dis- 
ease was  not  the  pestilence;  "  but  in  some  places  the  ordinary 
efifect  of  the  autumnal  exhalations  from  the  marshes,  and  else- 
where, of  the  privations  and  sufferings  undergone  during 
the  passage  of  the  German  troops.  This  affirmation  was  re- 
ported to  the  Board,  who  seem  to  have  been  perfectly  satisfied 
with  it. 

But  additional  reports  of  the  mortality  in  every  quarter 
pouring  in  without  intermission,  two  deputies  were  despatched 
to  see  and  provide  against  it — the  above-named  Tadino,  and 
an  auditor  of  the  committee.  When  these  arrived,  the  evil 
had  spread  so  widely,  that  proofs  offered  themselves  to  their 
view  without  being  sought  for.  They  passed  through  the  ter- 
ritory of  Lecco,  the  Valassina,  the  shores  of  the  Lake  of  Como, 
and  the  districts  denominated  II  Monte  di  Brianza  and  La 
Gera  d'Adda;  and  everywhere  found  the  towns  barricaded, 
others  almost  deserted,  and  the  inhabitants  escaped  and  en- 
camped in  the  fields,  or  scattered  throughout  the  country; 
"  who  seemed,"  says  Tadino,  ''  like  so  many  wild  savages, 
carrying  in  their  hands,  one  a  sprig  of  mint,  another  of 
rue,  another  of  rosemary,  another  a  bottle  of  vinegar."  They 
made  inquiries  as  to  the  number  of  deaths,  which  was  really 
fearful;  they  visited  the  sick  and  dead,  and  everywhere  recog- 


456  MANZONI 

nized  the  dark  and  terrible  marks  of  the  pestilence.  They 
then  speedily  conveyed  the  disastrous  intelligence  by  letter 
to  the  Board  of  Health,  who,  on  receiving  it,  on  the  30th  of 
October,  *'  prepared,"  says  Tadino,  "  to  issue  warrants  to  shut 
out  of  the  city  any  persons  coming  from  the  countries  where 
the  plague  had  shown  itself;  and  while  preparing  the  decree," 
they  gave  some  summary  orders  beforehand  to  the  custom- 
house officers. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  commissioners,  in  great  haste  and 
precipitation,  made  what  provisions  they  knew,  or  could  think 
of,  for  the  best,  and  returned  with  the  melancholy  conscious- 
ness of  their  insufficiency  to  remedy  or  arrest  an  evil  already 
so  far  advanced,  and  so  widely  disseminated. 

On  the  14th  of  November,  having  made  their  report,  both 
by  word  of  mouth  and  afresh  in  writing,  to  the  Board,  they  re- 
ceived from  this  committtee  a  commission  to  present  them- 
selves to  the  governor,  and  to  lay  before  him  the  state  of 
things.  They  went,  accordingly,  and  brought  back  word, 
that  he  was  exceedingly  sorry  to  hear  such  news,  and  had 
shown  a  great  deal  of  feeling  about  it;  but  the  thoughts  of 
war  were  more  pressing:  "  Sed  belli  graviores  esse  curas." 
So  says  Ripamonti,  after  having  ransacked  the  records  of  the 
Board  of  Health,  and  compared  them  with  Tadino,  who  had 
been  specially  charged  with  this  mission :  it  was  the  second,  if 
the  reader  remembers,  for  this  purpose,  and  with  this  result. 
Two  or  three  days  afterward,  the  i8th  of  November,  the  gov- 
ernor issued  a  proclamation,  in  which  he  prescribed  public  re- 
joicings for  the  birth  of  the  Prince  Charles,  the  first-born  son 
of  the  king,  Philip  IV,  without  thinking  of,  or  without  caring 
for,  the  danger  of  suffering  a  large  concourse  of  people  imder 
such  circumstances:  everything  as  in  common  times,  just  as 
if  he  had  never  been  spoken  to  about  anything. 

This  person  was,  as  w^e  have  elsewhere  said,  the  cele- 
brated Ambrogio  Spinola,  sent  for  the  very  purpose  of  ad- 
justing this  war,  to  repair  the  errors  of  Don  Gonzalo,  and,  in- 
cidentally, to  govern;  and  we  may  here  incidentally  mention, 
that  he  died  a  few  months  later  in  that  very  war  which  he  had 
so  much  at  heart;  not  wounded  in  the  field  of  battle,  but  on 
his  bed,  of  grief  and  anxiety  occasioned  by  reproaches,  af- 
fronts, and  ill-treatment  of  every  kind,  received  from  those 
whom  he  had  served.  History  has  bewailed  his  fate,  and  re- 
marked upon  the  ingratitude  of  others;  it  has  described  with 
much  diligence  his  military  and  political  enterprises,  and  ex- 
tolled his  foresight,  activity,  and  perseverance;  it  might  also 
have  inquired  what  he   did  with  all  these,  when  pestilence 


THE   BETROTHED  457 

threatened  and  actually  invaded  a  population  committed  to 
his  care,  or  rather  entirely  given  up  to  his  authority. 

But  that  which,  leaving  censure,  diminishes  our  wonder  at 
his  behaviour,  which  even  creates  another  and  greater  feeling 
of  wonder,  is  the  behaviour  of  the  people  themselves;  of  those, 
I  mean,  who,  unreached  as  yet  by  the  contagion,  had  so  much 
reason  to  fear  it.  On  the  arrival  of  the  intelligence  from  the 
territories  which  were  so  grievously  infected  with  it,  territories 
which  formed  almost  a  semi-circular  line  round  the  city,  in 
some  places  not  more  than  twenty,  or  even  eighteen  miles  dis- 
tant from  it,  who  would  not  have  thought  that  a  general  stir 
would  have  been  created,  that  they  would  have  been  diligent 
in  taking  precautions,  w^hether  well  or  ill  selected,  or  at  least 
have  felt  a  barren  disquietude?  Nevertheless,  if  in  anything 
the  records  of  the  times  agree,  it  is  in  attesting  that  there  was 
none  of  these.  The  scarcity  of  the  antecedent  year,  the  vio- 
lence of  the  soldiery,  and  their  sufferings  of  mind,  seemed  to 
them  more  than  enough  to  account  for  the  mortality:  and  if 
any  one  had  attempted,  in  the  streets,  shops,  and  houses,  to 
throw  out  a  hint  of  danger,  and  mention  the  plague,  it  would 
have  been  received  with  incredulous  scoflfs,  or  angry  con- 
tempt. The  same  incredulity,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
the  same  blindness  and  perversity,  prevailed  in  the  senate,  in 
the  Council  of  the  Decurioni,  and  in  all  the  magistrates. 

I  find  that  Cardinal  Federigo,  immediately  on  learning  the 
first  cases  of  a  contagious  sickness,  enjoined  his  priests,  in  a 
pastoral  letter,  among  other  things,  to  impress  upon  the  peo- 
ple the  importance  and  obligation  of  making  known  every 
similar  case,  and  delivering  up  any  infected  or  suspected 
goods:  and  this,  too,  may  be  reckoned  among  his  praisewor- 
thy peculiarities. 

The  Board  of  Health  solicited  precautions  and  co-opera- 
tions: it  was  all  but  in  vain.  And  in  the  Board  itself  their 
solicitude  was  far  from  equalling  the  urgency  of  the  case;  it 
was  the  two  physicians,  as  Tadino  frequently  afftrms,  and  as 
appears  still  better  from  the  whole  context  of  his  narrative, 
who,  persuaded  and  deeply  sensible  of  the  gravity  and  im- 
minence of  the  danger,  urged  forward  that  body,  which  was 
then  to  urge  forward  others. 

We  have  already  seen  how,  on  the  first  tidings  of  the 
plague,  there  had  been  indifference  and  remissness  in  acting, 
and  even  in  obtaining  information;  we  now  give  another  in- 
stance of  dilatoriness  not  less  portentous,  if  indeed  it  were  not 
compelled  by  obstacles  interposed  by  the  superior  magistrates. 
That  proclamation  in  the  form  of  warrants,  resolved  upon  on 


458 


MANZONI 


the  30th  of  October,  was  not  completed  till  the  23d  of  the  fol- 
lowing month,  nor  published  till  the  29th.  The  plague  had 
already  entered  Milan. 

Tadino  and  Ripamonti  would  record  the  name  of  the  in- 
dividual who  first  brought  it  thither,  together  with  other  cir- 
cumstances of  the  person  and  the  fact:  and,  in  truth,  in  ob- 
serving the  beginnings  of  a  wide-spreading  destruction,  in 
which  the  victims  not  only  can  not  be  distinguished  by  name, 
but  their  numbers  can  scarcely  be  expressed  with  any  degree 
of  exactness,  even  by  the  thousand,  one  feels  a  certain  kind  of 
interest  in  ascertaining  those  first  and  few  names  which  could 
be  noted  and  preserved:  it  seems  as  if  this  sort  of  distinction, 
a  precedence  in  extermination,  invests  them,  and  all  the  other 
minutiae,  which  would  otherwise  be  most  indifferent,  with 
something  fatal  and  memorable. 

Both  one  and  the  other  historian  say  that  it  was  an  Italian 
soldier  in  the  Spanish  service;  but  in  nothing  else  do  they 
agree,  not  even  in  the  name.  According  to  Tadino,  it  was  a 
person  of  the  name  of  Pietro  Antonio  Lovato,  quartered  in  the 
territory  of  Lecco:  according  to  Ripamonti,  a  certain  Pier 
Paolo  Locati,  quartered  at  Chiavenna.  They  differ  also  as 
to  the  day  of  his  entrance  into  Milan;  the  first  placing  it  on 
the  22d  of  October,  the  second,  on  the  same  day  in  the  fol- 
lowing month;  yet  it  can  not  be  either  on  one  or  the  other. 
Both  the  dates  contradict  others  which  are  far  better  authenti- 
cated. Yet  Ripamonti,  writing  by  order  of  the  General  Coun- 
cil of  the  Decurioni,  ought  to  have  had  many  means  at  his 
command  of  gaining  the  necessary  information;  and,  Tadino, 
in  consideration  of  his  oftice,  might  have  been  better  informed 
than  any  one  else  on  a  subject  of  this  nature.  In  short,  com- 
paring other  dates,  which,  as  we  have  said,  appear  to  us  more 
authentic,  it  would  seem  that  it  was  prior  to  the  publication  of 
the  warrants;  and  if  it  were  worth  while,  it  might  even  be 
proved,  or  nearly  so,  that  it  must  have  been  very  early  in  that 
month:  but  the  reader  will,  doubtless,  excuse  us  the  task. 

However  it  may  be,  this  soldier,  unfortunate  himself,  and 
the  bearer  of  misfortune  to  others,  entered  the  city  with  a  large 
bundle  of  clothes  purchased  or  stolen  from  the  German 
troops;  he  went  to  stay  at  the  house  of  one  of  his  relatives  in 
the  suburbs  of  the  Porta  Orientale,  near  to  the  Capuchin  Con- 
vent. Scarcely  had  he  arrived  there,  when  he  w^as  taken  ill; 
he  was  conveyed  to  the  hospital;  here,  a  spot,  discovered 
under  one  of  the  arm-pits,  excited  some  suspicion  in  the  mind 
of  the  person  who  tended  him,  of  what  was  in  truth  the  fact; 
and  on  the  fourth  day  he  died. 


THE    BETROTHED 


459 


The  Board  of  Health  immediately  ordered  his  family  to 
be  kept  separate,  and  confined  within  their  own  house;  and 
his  clothes,  and  the  bed  on  which  he  had  lain  at  the  hospital, 
were  burned.  Two  attendants,  who  had  there  nursed  him, 
and  a  good  friar,  who  had  rendered  him  his  assistance,  were 
all  three,  within  a  few  days,  seized  with  the  plague.  The  sus- 
picions which  had  here  been  felt,  from  the  beginning,  of  the 
nature  of  the  disease,  and  the  precautions  taken  in  conse- 
quence, prevented  the  further  spread  of  the  contagion  from 
this  source. 

But  the  soldier  had  left  seed  outside,  which  delayed  not  to 
spring  up,  and  shoot  forth.  The  first  person  in  whom  it  broke 
out  was  the  master  of  the  house  where  he  had  lodged,  one 
Carlo  Colonna,  a  lute-player.  All  the  inmates  of  the  dwelling 
were  then,  by  order  of  the  Board,  conveyed  to  the  Lazzeretto ; 
where  the  greater  number  took  to  their  beds,  and  many  short- 
ly died  of  evident  infection. 

In  the  city,  that  which  had  been  already  disseminated  there 
by  intercourse  with  the  above-mentioned  family,  and  by 
clothes  and  furniture  belonging  to  them  preserved  by  relations, 
lodgers,  or  servants,  from  the  searches  and  flames  prescribed 
by  the'  Board,  as  well  as  that  which  was  afresh  introduced  by 
defectiveness  in  the  regulations,  by  negligence  in  executing 
them,  and  by  dexterity  in  eluding  them,  continued  lurking 
about,  and  slow^ly  insinuating  itself- among  the  inhabitants,  all 
the  rest  of  the  year,  and  in  the  earlier  months  of  1630,  the  year 
which  followed.  From  time  to  time,  now  in  this,  now  in  that 
quarter,  some  one  was  seized  wdth  the  contagion,  some  one 
was  carried  of¥  with  it:  and  the  very  infrequency  of  the  cases 
continued  to  lull  all  suspicions  of  pestilence,  and  confirmed 
the  generality  more  and  more  in  the  senseless  and  murderous 
assurance  that  plague  it  was  not,  and  never  had  been,  for  a 
moment.  Many  physicians,  too,  echoing  the  voice  of  the  peo- 
ple (was  it,  in  this  instance  also,  the  voice  of  Heaven?)  de- 
rided the  ominous  predictions  and  threatening  warnings  of  the 
few ;  and  alwa3"s  had  at  hand  the  names  of  common  diseases  to 
qualify  every  case  of  pestilence  w^hich  they  w^ere  summoned 
to  cure,  w^ith  what  symptom  or  token  soever  it  evinced  itself. 

The  reports  of  these  instances,  when  they  reached  the 
Board  of  Health  at  all,  reached  it,  for  the  most  part,  tardily 
and  uncertainly.  Dread  of  sequestration  and  the  Lazzeretto 
sharpened  every  one's  wits;  they  concealed  the  sick,  they  cor- 
rupted the  grave-diggers  and  elders,  and  obtained  false  certifi- 
cates, by  means  of  bribes,  from  subalterns  of  the  Board  itself, 
deputed  by  it  to  visit  and  inspect  the  dead  bodies. 


460 


MANZONI 


As,  however,  on  every  discovery  they  succeeded  in  making, 
the  Board  ordered  the  wearing  apparel  to  be  committed  to  the 
flames,  put  the  houses  under  sequestration,  and  sent  the  in- 
mates to  the  Lazzeretto,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  what  must  have 
been  the  anger  and  dissatisfaction  of  the  generahty  "  of  the 
nobihty,  merchants,  and  lower  orders,"  persuaded,  as  they  all 
were,  that  they  were  mere  causeless  vexations  without  any 
advantage.  The  principal  odium  fell  upon  the  two  doctors, 
our  frequently  mentioned  Tadino  and  Senatore  Settala,  son  of 
the  senior  physician,  and  reached  such  a  height,  that  thence- 
forward they  could  not  publicly  appear  without  being  as- 
sailed with  opprobrious  language,  if  not  with  stones.  And, 
certainly,  the  situation  in  which  these  individuals  were  placed 
for  several  months,  is  remarkable,  and  worthy  of  being  record- 
ed, seeing  a  horrible  scourge  advancing  toward  them,  labour- 
ing, by  every  method,  to  repulse  it,  yet  meeting  with  obstacles, 
not  only  in  the  arduousness  of  the  task,  but  from  every  quar- 
ter, in  the  unwillingness  of  the  people,  and  being  made  the 
general  object  of  execration,  and  regarded  as  the  enemies  of 
their  country:  *'  Pro  patriae  hostibus,"  says  Ripamonti. 

Sharers,  also,  in  this  hatred  were  the  other  physicians,  who, 
convinced  like  them  of  the  reality  of  the  contagion,  suggested 
precautions,  and  sought  to  communicate  to  others  their  mel- 
ancholy convictions.  The  most  knowing  taxed  them  with 
credulity  and  obstinacy;  while,  with  the  many,  it  was  evident- 
ly an  imposture,  a  planned  combination,  to  make  a  profit  by 
the  public  fears. 

The  aged  physician,  Ludovico  Settala,  who  had  almost  at- 
tained his  eightieth  year,  who  had  been  Professor  of  Medicine 
in  the  University  of  Pavia,  and  afterward  of  Moral  Philosophy 
at  Milan,  the  author  of  many  works  at  that  time  in  very  high 
repute,  eminent  for  the  invitations  he  had  received  to  occupy 
the  chairs  of  other  universities,  Ingolstadt,  Pisa,  Bologna,  and 
Padua,  and  for  his  refusal  of  all  these  honours,  was  certainly 
one  of  the  most  influential  men  of  his  time.  To  his  reputation 
for  learning  was  added  that  of  his  life;  and  to  admiration  of 
his  character,  a  feeling  of  good-will  for  his  great  kindness  in 
curing  and  benefiting  the  poor.  Yet  there  is  one  circum- 
stance, which,  in  our  minds,  disturbs  and  overclouds  the  senti- 
ment of  esteem  inspired  by  these  merits,  but  which  at  that 
time  must  have  rendered  it  stronger  and  more  general:  the 
poor  man  participated  in  the  commonest  and  most  fatal  preju- 
dices of  his  contemporaries:  he  was  in  advance  of  them,  but 
not  distinguished  from  the  multitude;  a  station  which  only 
invites  trouble,  and  often  causes  the  loss  of  an  authority  ac- 


THE    BETROTHED  461 

quired  by  other  means.  Nevertheless,  that  which  he  enjoyed 
in  so  great  a  degree,  was  not  only  insufficient  to  overcome  the 
general  opinion  on  this  subject  of  the  pestilence,  but  it  could 
not  even  protect  him  from  the  animosity  and  the  insults  of  that 
part  of  the  populace,  which  most  readily  steps  from  opinions 
to  their  exhibition  by  actual  deeds. 

One  day,  as  he  was  going  in  a  litter  to  visit  his  patients, 
crowds  began  to  assemble  round  him,  crying  out  that  he  was 
the  head  of  those  who  were  determined,  in  spite  of  everything, 
to  make  out  that  there  was  a  plague ;  that  it  was  he  who  put 
the  city  in  alarm,  with  his  gloomy  brow,  and  shaggy  beard; 
and  all  to  give  employment  to  the  doctors!  The  multitude /^ /  ' 
aiid  their  fury  went  on  increasing;  so  that  the  bearers,  seeing  j  .^^ 
their  danger,  took  refuge  with  their  master  in  the  house  of  a  , 

friend,  which  fortunately  happened  to  be  at  hand.  All  thisC-^^"*"! 
occurred  to  him  for  having  foreseen  clearly,  stated  what  was 
really  the  fact,  and  wished  to  save  thousands  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  from  the  pestilence:  when  having  by  his  deplorable 
advice,  co-operated  in  causing  a  poor  unhappy  wretch  to  be 
put  to  the  torture,  racked,  and  burnt  as  a  witch,  because  one 
of  her  masters  had  suffered  extraordinary  pains  in  his  stom- 
ach, and  another,  some  time  before,  had  been  desperately  en- 
amoured of  her,  he  had  received  from  the  popular  voice  ad- 
ditional reputation  for  wisdom,  and,  what  is  intolerable  to 
think  of,  the  additional  title  of  the  well-deserving. 

Toward  the  latter  end  of  March,  however,  sickness  and 
deaths  began  rapidly  to  multiply,  first  in  the  suburbs  of  the 
Porta  Orientale,  and  then  in  all  the  other  quarters  of  the  city, 
with  the  unusual  accompaniments  of  spasms,  palpitation,  leth- 
argy, delirium,  and  those  fatal  symptoms,  livid  spots  and  sores; 
and  these  deaths  were,  for  the  most  part,  rapid,  violent,  and 
not  unfrequently  sudden,  without  any  previous  tokens  of  ill- 
ness. Those  physicians  who  were  opposed  to  the  belief  of 
contagion,  unwilling  now  to  admit  what  they  had  hitherto  de- 
rided, yet  obliged  to  give  a  generical  name  to  the  new  malady, 
which  had  become  too  common  and  too  evident  to  go  without 
one,  adopted  that  of  malignant  or  pestilential  fevers — a  miser- 
able expedient,  a  mere  play  upon  words,  which  was  productive 
of  much  harm;  because,  while  it  appeared  to  acknov/ledge  the 
truth,  it  only  contributed  to  the  disbelief  of  what  it  was  most 
important  to  believe  and  discern,  viz.,  that  the  infection  was 
conveyed  by  means  of  the  touch.  The  magistrates,  like  one 
awaking  from  a  deep  sleep,  began  to  lend  a  little  more  ear  to 
the  appeals  and  proposals  of  the  Board  of  Health,  to  support 
its  proclamations,  and  second  the  sequestrations  prescribed. 


462  MANZONI 

and  the  quarantines  enjoined  by  this  tribunal.  The  Board 
was  also  constantly  demanding  money  to  provide  for  the  daily 
expenses  of  the  Lazzeretto,  now  augmented  by  so  many  ad- 
ditional services;  and  for  this  they  applied  to  the  Decurioni, 
while  it  was  being  decided  (which  was  never  done,  I  believe, 
except  by  practice)  whether  such  expenses  should  be  charged 
to  the  city,  or  to  the  royal  exchequer.  The  high  chancellor 
also  applied  importunately  to  the  Decurioni,  by  .order,  too,  of 
the  governor,  who  had  again  returned  to  lay  siege  to  the  un- 
fortunate Casale;  the  senate  likewise  applied  to  them,  implor- 
ing them  to  see  to  the  best  method  of  victualling  the  city,  be- 
fore they  should  be  forbidden,  in  case  of  the  unhappy  dissem- 
ination of  the  contagion,  to  have  any  intercourse  with  other 
countries;  and  to  find  means  of  maintaining  a  large  propor- 
tion of  the  population  which  was  now  deprived  of  employ- 
ment. The  Decurioni  endeavoured  to  raise  money  by  loans 
and  taxes;  and  of  what  they  thus  accumulated  they  gave  a 
little  to  the  Board  of  Health,  a  little  to  the  poor,  purchased  a 
little  corn,  and  thus,  in  some  degree,  supplied  the  existing 
necessity.     The  severest  sufiferings  had  not  yet  arrived. 

In  the  Lazzeretto,  where  the  population,  although  de- 
cimated daily,  continued  daily  on  the  increase,  there  was  an- 
other arduous  undertaking,  to  insure  attendance  and  subor- 
dination, to  preserve  the  enjoined  separations,  to  maintain,  in 
short,  or  rather  to  establish  the  government  prescribed  by 
the  Board  of  Health:  for,  from  the  very  first,  everything  had 
been  in  confusion,  from  the  ungovernableness  of  many  of  the 
inmates,  and  the  negligence  or  connivance  of  the  officials. 
The  Board  and  the  Decurioni,  not  knowing  which  way  to  turn, 
bethought  themselves  of  applying  to  the  Capuchins,  and  be- 
sought the  Father  Commissary,  as  he  was  called,  of  the  prov- 
ince, who  occupied  the  place  of  the  Father  Provincial,  lately 
deceased,  to  give  them  a  competent  person  to  govern  this  deso- 
late kingdom.  The  commissary  proposed  to  them,  as  their 
governor,  one  Father  Felice  Casati,  a  man  of  advanced  age, 
who  enjoyed  great  reputation  for  charity,  activity,  and  gentle- 
ness of  disposition,  combined  with  a  strong  mind — a  character 
which,  as  the  sequel  will  show,  was  well  deserved;  and  as  his 
coadjvitor  and  assistant,  one  Father  Michele  Pozzobonelli, 
still  a  young  man,  but  grave  and  stern  in  mind  as  in  counte- 
nance. Gladly  enough  were  they  accepted;  and  on  the  30th 
of  March  they  entered  the  Lazzeretto.  The  President  of  the 
Board  of  Health  conducted  them  round,  as  it  were,  to  put 
them  in  possession;  and  having  assembled  the  servants  and 
officials  of  every  rank,  proclaimed  Father  Felice,  in  their  pres- 


THE   BETROTHED 


463 


ence,  governor  of  the  place,  with  primary  and  unlimited  au- 
thority. In  proportion  as  the  wretched  multitude  there  as- 
sembled increased,  other  Capuchins  resorted  thither;  and  here 
were  superintendents,  confessors,  administrators,  nurses, 
cooks,  overlookers  of  the  wardrobes,  washer-women,  in  short, 
everything  that  was  required.  Father  Felice,  ever  diligent, 
ever  watchful,  went  about  day  and  night,  through  the  porti- 
coes, chambers,  and  open  spaces,  sometimes  carrying  a  spear, 
sometimes  armed  only  with  hair-cloth;  he  animated  and  regu- 
lated every  duty,  pacified  tumults,  settled  disputes,  threatened, 
punished,  reproved,  comforted,  dried  and  shed  tears.  At  the 
very  outset  he  took  the  plague;  recovered,  and  with  fresh 
alacrity  resumed  his  first  duties.  Most  of  his  brethren  here 
sacrificed  their  lives,  and  all  joyfully. 

Such  a  dictatorship  was  certainly  a  strange  expedient; 
strange  as  was  the  calamity,  strange  as  were  the  times;  and 
even  did  we  know  no  more  about  it,  this  alone  would  suffice 
as  an  argument,  as  a  specimen,  indeed,  of  a  rude  and  ill-regu- 
lated state  of  society.  But  the  spirit,  the  deeds,  the  self-sacri- 
fice, of  these  friars,  deserve  no  less  than  that  they  should  be 
mentioned  with  respect  and  tenderness,  and  with  that  species 
of  gratitude  which  one  feels,  en  masse  as  it  were,  for  great 
services  rendered  by  men  to  their  fellows.  To  die  in  a  good 
cause  is  a  wise  and  beautiful  action,  at  any  time,  under  any 
state  of  things  whatsoever.  "  For  had  not  y^^  Fathers  re- 
payred  hither,"  says  Tadino,  ''  assuredly  y^  whole  Citie  would 
have  been  annihilated;  for  it  was  a  miraculous  Thing  that  y^® 
Fathers  effected  so  much  for  y^  publick  Benefit  in  so  short  a 
space  of  Time,  and,  receiving  no  Assistance,  or  at  least,  very 
little,  from  y^  Citie,  contrived,  by  their  Industrie  and  Pru- 
dence, to  maintain  so  many  thousands  of  Poore  in  y^  Laz- 
zeretto." 

Among  the  public,  also,  this  obstinacy  in  denying  the  pes- 
tilence gave  way  naturally,  and  gradually  disappeared,  in  pro- 
portion as  the  contagion  extended  itself,  and  extended  itself, 
too,  before  their  own  eyes,  by  means  of  contact  and  inter- 
course; and  still  more  when,  after  having  been  for  some  time 
confined  to  the  lower  orders,  it  began  to  take  effect  upon  the 
higher.  And  among  these,  as  he  was  then  the  most  eminent, 
so  by  us  now,  the  senior  physician  Settala,  deserves  express 
mention.  People  must  at  least  have  said:  The  poor  old  man 
was  right!  But  who  knows?  He,  his  wife,  two  sons,  and 
seven  persons  in  his  service,  all  took  the  plague.  One  of 
these  sons  and  himself  recovered;  the  rest  died.  "These 
Cases,'  says  Tadino,  **  occurring  in  the  Citie  in  the  first  fami- 


464  MANZONI 

lies,  disposed  the  Nobilitie  and  common  People  to  think;  and 
the  incredulous  Physicians,  and  the  ignorant  and  rash  lower 
Orders,  began  to  bite  their  Lips,  grind  their  Teeth,  and  arch 
their  Eyebrows  in  Amazement." 

But  the  revolutions,  the  reprisals,  the  vengeance,  so  to  say, 
of  convinced  obstinacy,  are  sometimes  such  as  to  raise  a 
wish  that  it  had  continued  unshaken  and  unconquered,  even 
to  the  last,  against  reason  and  evidence:  and  this  was  truly 
one  of  these  occasions.  They  who  had  so  resolutely  and  per- 
severingly  impugned  the  existence  of  a  germ  of  evil  near 
them,  or  among  them,  which  might  propagate  itself  by  natural 
means,  and  make  much  havoc,  unable  now  to  deny  its  propa- 
gation, and  unwilling  to  attribute  it  to  those  means  (for  this 
would  have  been  to  confess  at  once  a  great  delusion  and  a 
great  error),  were  so  much  the  more  inclined  to  find  some 
other  cause  for  it,  and  make  good  any  that  might  happen  to 
present  itself.  Unhappily,  there  was  one  in  readiness  in  the 
ideas  and  traditions  common  at  that  time,  not  only  here,  but 
in  every  part  of  Europe,  of  magical  arts,  diabolical  practices, 
people  sworn  to  disseminate  the  plague  by  means  of  conta- 
gious poisons  and  witchcraft.  These  and  similar  things  had  al- 
ready been  supposed  and  believed  during  many  other  plagues; 
and  at  Milan,  especially,  in  that  of  half  a  century  before.  It 
may  be  added  that,  even  during  the  preceding  year,  a  de- 
spatch, signed  by  King  Philip  IV,  had  been  forwarded  to  the 
governor,  in  which  he  was  informed  that  four  Frenchmen  had 
escaped  from  Madrid,  who  were  sought  upon  suspicion  of 
spreading  poisonous  and  pestilential  ointments;  and  requir- 
ing him  to  be  on  the  w^atch,  perchance  they  should  arrive  at 
Milan.  The  governor  communicated  the  despatch  to  the 
senate  and  the  Board  of  Health;  and  thenceforward,  it  seems, 
they  thought  no  more  about  it.  When,  however,  the  plague 
broke  forth,  and  was  recognized  by  all,  the  return  of  this  in- 
telligence to  memory,  may  have  served  to  confirm  and  support 
the  vague  suspicion  of  an  iniquitous  fraud;  it  may  even  have 
been  the  first  occasion  of  creating  it. 

But  two  actions,  one  of  blind  and  undisciplined  fear,  the 
other  of  I  know  not  what  malicious  mischief,  were  what  con- 
verted this  vague  suspicion  of  a  possible  attempt,  into  more 
than  suspicion  (and,  with  many,  a  certain  conviction)  of  a  real 
plot.  Some  persons,  who  fancied  they  had  seen  people,  on 
the  evening  of  the  17th  of  May,  in  the  cathedral,  anointing  a 
partition  which  was  used  to  separate  the  spaces  assigned  to 
the  two  sexes,  had  this  partition,  and  a  number  of  benches 
enclosed  within  it,  brought  out  during  the  night;  although 


THE    BETROTHED  465 

the  President  of  the  Board  of  Health,  having  repaired  thither 
with  four  members  of  the  committee,  and  having  inspected  the 
screen,  the  benches,  and  the  stoups  of  holy  water,  and  found 
nothing  that  could  confirm  the  ignorant  suspicion  of  a  poison- 
ous attempt,  had  declared,  to  humour  other  people's  fancies, 
and  rather  to  exceed  in  eaiition,  than  from  any  conviction  of  neces- 
sity, that  it  would  be  sufficient  to  have  the  partition  washed. 
This  mass  of  piled-up  furniture  produced  a  strong  impression 
of  consternation  among  the  multitude,  to  whom  any  object  so 
readily  became  an  argument.  It  was  said,  and  generally  be- 
lieved, that  all  the  benches,  walls,  and  even  the  bell-ropes  in 
the  cathedral,  had  been  rubbed  over  with  unctuous  matter. 
Nor  was  this  affirmed  only  at  the  time :  all  the  records  of  con- 
temporaries (some  of  them  written  after  a  lapse  of  many  years) 
which  allude  to  this  incident,  speak  of  it  with  equal  certainty 
of  asseveration:  and  we  should  be  obliged  to  conjecture  its  true 
history,  did  we  not  find  it  in  a  letter  from  the  Board  of  Health 
to  the  governor,  preserved  in  the  archives  of  San  Fedele,  from 
w^hich  we  have  extracted  it,  and  whence  we  have  quoted  the 
w^ords  we  have  wTitten  in  italics. 

Next  morning  a  new,  stranger,  and  more  significant  spec- 
tacle, struck  the  eyes  and  minds  of  the  citizens.  In  every 
part  of  the  city  they  saw  the  doors  and  walls  of  the  houses 
stained  and  daubed  with  long  streaks  of  I  know  not  what  filthi- 
ness,  something  yellowish  and  whitish,  spread  over  them  as 
if  with  a  sponge,  whether  it  were  a  base  inclination  to  witness 
a  more  clamorous  and  more  general  consternation,  or  a  still 
more  wicked  design  to  augment  the  public  confusion,  or  what- 
ever else  it  may  have  been,  the  fact  is  attested  in  such  a  man- 
ner, that  it  seems  to  us  less  rational  to  attribute  it  to  a  dream 
of  the  imagination,  than  to  a  wickedly  malicious  trick,  not  en- 
tirely new,  indeed,  to  the  wit  of  man — not,  alas!  deficient  in 
corresponding  effects,  in  every  place,  so  to  say,  and  every  age. 
Ripamonti,  who  frequently  on  this  subject  of  the  anointing, 
ridicules,  and  still  more  frequently  deplores  the  popular 
credulity,  here  affirms  that  he  had  seen  this  plastering,  and  then 
describes  it.  In  the  above-quoted  letter,  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Board  of  Health  relate  the  circumstance  in  the  same  terms; 
they  speak  of  inspections,  of  experiments  made  with  this  mat- 
ter upon  dogs,  without  any  injurious  effect;  and  add,  that  they 
believe  such  temerity  proceeded  rather  from  insolence  than  from 
any  guilty  design:  an  opinion  which  evinces  that,  up  to  this 
time,  they  retained  sufficient  tranquillity  of  mind  not  to  see 
what  really  did  not  exist.  Other  contemporary  records,  not 
to  reckon  their  testimony  as  to  the  truth  of  the  fact,  signify,  at 
30 


^66  MANZONI 

the  same  idea,  that  it  was  at  first  the  opinion  of  many,  that  this 
beplastering  had  been  done  in  joke,  in  a  mere  frohc;  none  of 
them  speak  of  any  one  who  denied  it;  and  had  there  been  any, 
they  certainly  would  have  mentioned  them,  were  it  only  to  call 
them  irrational.  I  have  deemed  it  not  out  of  place  to  relate 
and  put  together  these  particulars,  in  part  little  known,  in  part 
entirely  unknown,  of  a  celebrated  popular  delirium;  because 
in  errors,  and  especially  in  the  errors  of  a  multitude,  what 
seems  to  me  most  interesting  and  most  useful  to  observe,  is, 
the  course  they  have  taken,  their  appearances,  and  the  ways  by 
which  they  could  enter  men's  minds,  and  hold  sway  there. 

The  city,  already  tumultuously  inclined,  was  now  turned 
upside  down;  the  owners  of  the  houses,  with  lighted  straw, 
burned  the  besmeared  parts;  and  passers-by  stopped,  gazed, 
shuddered,  murmured.  Strangers,  suspected  of  this  alone, 
and  at  that  time  easily  recognized  by  their  dress,  were  ar- 
rested by  the  people  in  the  streets,  and  consigned  to  prison. 
Here  interrogations  and  examinations  were  made  of  captured, 
captors,  and  witnesses;  no  one  was  found  guilty:  men's 
minds  were  still  capable  of  doubting,  weighing,  understand- 
ing. The  Board  of  Health  issued  a  proclamation,  in  which 
they  promised  reward  and  impunity  to  any  one  who  would 
bring  to  light  the  author  or  authors  of  the  deed.  "  In  any 
wise,  not  thinking  it  expedient/'  say  these  gentlemen  in  the  letter 
we  have  quoted,  which  bears  date  21st  of  May,  but  which 
was  evidently  written  on  the  19th,  the  day  signified  in  the 
printed  proclamation,  ''  that  this  crime  should  by  any  means  re- 
main unpunished,  spcciallie  in  times  so  perilous  and  suspicious,  zve 
have,  for  the  consolation  and  peace  of  the  people,  this  dale  pub- 
lished an  edicte,''  etc.  In  the  edict,  however,  there  is  no  men- 
tion, at  least  no  distinct  one,  of  that  rational  and  tranquillizing 
conjecture  they  had  suggested  to  the  governor:  a  reservation 
which  indicates  at  once  a  fierce  prejudice  in  the  people,  and 
in  themselves  a  degree  of  obsequiousness,  so  much  the  more 
blamable  as  the  consequences  might  prove  more  pernicious. 

While  the  Board  was  thus  making  inquiries,  many  of  the 
public,  as  is  usually  the  case,  had  already  found  the  answer. 
Among  those  who  believed  this  to  be  a  poisonous  ointment, 
some  were  sure  it  was  an  act  of  revenge  of  Don  Gonzalo  Fer- 
nandez de  Cordova,  for  the  insults  received  at  his  departure; 
some,  that  it  was  an  idea  of  Cardinal  Richelieu's  to  desolate 
Milan,  and  make  himself  master  of  it  without  trouble;  others 
again — it  is  not  known  with  what  motives — would  have  that 
the  Count  Collalto  was  the  author  of  the  plot,  or  Wallenstein, 
or  this  or  that  Milanese  nobleman.     There  wanted  not  too,  as 


THE    BETROTHED  467 

we  have  said,  those  who  saw  nothing  in  this  occurrence  but  a 
mischievous  jest,  and  attributed  it  to  students,  to  gentlemen, 
to  officers  who  were  weary  of  the  siege  of  Casale.  It  did  not 
appear,  however,  as  had  been  dreaded,  that  infection  and  uni- 
versal slaughter  immediately  ensued:  and  this  was  probably 
the  cause  tliat  this  first  fear  began  by  degrees  to  subside,  and 
the  matter  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  forgotten. 

There  was,  after  all,  a  certain  number  of  persons  not  yet 
convinced  that  it  was  indeed  the  plague;  and  because,  both  in 
the  Lazzeretto  and  in  the  city,  some  were  restored  to  health, 
*'  it  was  affirmed  "  (the  final  arguments  for  an  opinion  con- 
tradicted by  evidence  are  always  curious  enough),  "  it  was 
affirmed  by  the  common  people,  and  even  by  the  many  partial 
physicians,  that  it  was  not  really  the  plague,  or  all  would  have 
died."  To  remove  every  doubt,  the  Board  of  Health  em- 
ployed an  expedient  comformable  to  the  necessity  of  the  case, 
a  means  of  speaking  to  the  eye,  such  as  the  times  may  have 
required  or  suggested.  On  one  of  the  festal  days  of  Whitsun- 
tide, the  citizens  were  in  the  habit  of  flocking  to  the  cemetery 
of  San  Gregorio,  outside  the  Porta  Orientale,  to  pray  for  the 
souls  of  those  who  had  died  in  the  former  contagion,  and 
whose  bodies  were  there  interred;  and  borrowing  from  devo- 
tion an  opportunity  of  amusement  and  sight-seeing,  every  one 
went  thither  in  his  best  and  gayest  clothing.  One  whole 
family,  among  others,  had  this  day  died  of  the  plague.  At 
the  hour  of  the  thickest  concourse,  in  the  midst  of  carriages, 
riders  on  horseback,  and  foot-passengers,  the  corpses  of  this 
family  were,  by  order  of  the  Board,  drawn  naked  on  a  car 
to  the  above-named  burying-ground ;  in  order  that  the  crowd 
might  behold  in  them  the  manifest  token,  the  revolting 
seal  and  symptom,  of  the  pestilence.  A  cry  of  horror  and 
consternation  arose  wherever  the  car  was  passing;  a  pro- 
longed murmur  was  predominant  where  it  had  passed,  another 
murmur  preceded  it.  The  real  existence  of  the  plague  was 
more  believed:  besides,  every  day  it  continued  to  gain  more 
belief  by  itself;  and  that  very  concourse  would  contribute  not 
a  little  to  propagate  it. 

First,  then,  it  was  not  the  plague,  absolutely  not — by  no 
means:  the  very  utterance  of  the  term  was  prohibited.  Then, 
it  was  pestilential  fevers:  the  idea  was  indirectly  admitted  in 
an  adjective.  Then,  it  was  not  the  true  nor  real  plague;  that 
is  to  say,  it  was  the  plague,  but  only  in  a  certain  sense;  not 
positively  and  undoubtedly  the  plague,  but  something  to 
which  no  other  name  could  be  affixed.  Lastly,  it  was  the 
plague,  without  doubt,  without  dispute:  but  even  then  an- 


468 


MANZONI 


other  idea  was  appended  to  it,  the  idea  of  poison  and  witch- 
craft, which  altered  and  confounded  that  conveyed  in  the  word 
they  could  no  longer  repress. 

There  is  no  necessity,  I  imagine,  to  be  well  versed  in  the 
history  of  words  and  ideas,  to  perceive  that  many  others  have 
followed  a  similar  course.  Heaven  be  praised  that  there  have 
not  been  many  of  such  a  nature,  and  of  so  vast  importance, 
which  contradict  their  evidence  at  such  a  price,  and  to  which 
accessories  of  such  a  character  may  be  annexed!  It  is  pos- 
sible, however,  both  in  great  and  trifling  concerns,  to  avoid, 
in  great  measure,  so  lengthened  and  crooked  a  path,  by  fol- 
lowing the  method  which  has  been  so  long  laid  down,  of  ob- 
serving, listening,  comparing,  and  thinking,  before  speaking. 
I  But  speaking — this  one  thing  by  itself — is  so  much  easier 

^        than  all  the  others  put  together,  that  even  we,  I  say,  we  men 
in  general,  are  somewhat  to  be  pitied. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

THE  difficulty  of  providing  for  the  mournful  exigencies 
of  the  times  becoming  daily  greater,  it  was  resolved, 
on  the  4th  of  May,  in  the  Council  of  the  Decurioni,  to 
have  recourse  for  aid  and  favour  to  the  governor;  and 
accordingly,  on  the  22d,  two  members  of  that  body  were  de- 
spatched to  the  camp,  who  represented  to  him  the  suffering 
and  poverty  of  the  city:  the  enormous  expenditure,  the  treas- 
ury exhausted  and  involved  in  debt,  its  future  revenue  in 
pledge,  and  the  current  taxes  unpaid,  by  reason  of  the  general 
impoverishment,  produced  by  so  many  causes,  and  especially 
by  the  havoc  of  the  military;  they  submitted  to  his  considera- 
tion that,  according  to  laws  and  customs,  which  had  never 
been  repealed,  and  by  a  special  decree  of  Charles  V,  the  ex- 
penses of  the  pestilence  ought  to  be  defrayed  from  the  king's 
exchequer:  that,  in  the  plague  of  1576,  the  governor,  the 
Marquis  of  Ayamonte,  had  not  indeed  remitted  all  the  taxes  of 
the  Chamber,  but  had  relieved  the  city  with  forty  thousand 
scudi  from  that  same  Chamber;  and,  finally,  they  demanded 
four  things:  that,  as  once  before  already,  the  taxes  should  not 
be  exacted;  that  the  Chamber  should  grant  some  supplies  of 
money;  that  the  governor  should  acquaint  the  king  with  the 
misery  of  the  city  and  the  territory;  and  that  the  duchy  should 
be  exempted  from  again  quartering  the  military,  as  it  had 
been  already  wasted  and  destroyed  by  the  former  troops. 
Spinola  gave  in  reply  condolences  and  fresh  exhortations: 
he  said  he  was  sorry  he  did  not  happen  to  be  in  the  city,  that 
he  might  use  all  his  endeavours  for  its  relief;  but  he  hoped 
that  all  would  be  compensated  for  by  the  zeal  of  these  gen- 
tlemen: that  this  was  the  time  to  expend  without  parsimony, 
and  to  do  all  they  could  by  every  means :  and  as  to  the  express 
demands,  he  would  provide  for  them  in  the  best  way  the  times 
and  existing  necessities  would  allow.  Nor  was  there  any  fur- 
ther result:  there  were,  indeed,  mo're  journeys  to  and  fro,  new 
requisitions  and  replies;  but  I  do  not  find  that  they  came  to 
any  more  determinate  conclusions.     Some  time  later,  when 

469 


4;o  MANZONI 

the  plague  was  at  its  greatest  height,  the  governor  thought  fit 
to  transfer  his  authority,  by  letters  patent,  to  the  High  Chan- 
cellor Ferrer,  he  having,  as  he  said,  to  attend  to  the  war. 

Together  with  this  resolution,  the  Decurioni  had  also 
taken  another,  to  request  the  Cardinal  Archbishop  to  appoint 
a  solemn  procession,  bearing  through  the  city  the  body  of 
San  Carlo. 

The  good  prelate  refused,  for  many  reasons.  This  con- 
fidence !n  an  arbitrary  measure  displeased  him ;  and  he  feared 
that  if  the  effect  should  not  correspond  to  it,  which  he  had  also 
reason  to  fear,  confidence  would  be  converted  into  offence. 
He  feared  further,  that,  if  indeed  there  zvere  poisoners  about,  the 
procession  would  afford  too  convenient  opportunities  for 
crime;  if  there  zvere  not,  such  a  concourse  of  itself  should  not 
fail  to  disseminate  the  contagion  more  widely:  a  danger  far 
more  real.  For  the  suppressed  suspicions  of  poisonous  oint- 
ments had,  meanwhile,  revived  more  generally  and  more  vio- 
lently than  ever. 

People  had  again  seen,  or  this  time  they  fancied  they  had 
seen  anointed,  walls,  entrances  to  public  buildings,  doors  of 
private  houses,  and  knockers.  The  news  of  these  discoveries 
flew  from  mouth  to  mouth;  and,  as  it  happens  even  more  than 
usually  in  great  prepossessions,  the  report  produced  the  same 
effect  that  the  sight  of  it  would  have  done.  The  minds  of  the 
populace,  ever  more  and  more  embittered  by  the  actual  pres- 
ence of  suffering,  and  irritated  by  the  pertinacity  of  the  danger, 
embraced  this  belief  the  more  willingly;  for  anger  burns  to 
execute  its  revenge,  and,  as  a  very  worthy  man  acutely  ob- 
serves on  the  same  subject,  would  rather  attribute  evils  to 
human  wickedness,  upon  which  it  might  vent  its  tormenting 
energies,  than  acknowledge  them  from  a  source  which  leaves 
no  other  remedy  than  resignation.  A  subtle,  instantaneous, 
exceedingly  penetrating  poison,  were  words  more  than 
enough  to  explain  the  virulence,  and  all  the  other  most  mys- 
terious and  usual  accompaniments  of  the  contagion.  It  was 
said  that  this  venom  was  composed  of  toads,  of  serpents,  of 
saliva  and  matter  from  infected  persons,  of  worse  still,  of 
everything,  in  short,  that  wild  and  perverse  fancy  could  in- 
vent which  was  foul  and  atrocious.  To  these  was  added 
witchcraft,  by  which  any  effect  became  possible,  every  ob- 
jection lost  its  force,  every  difficulty  was  resolved.  If  the  an- 
ticipated effects  had  not  immediately  followed  upon  the  first 
anointing,  the  reason  was  now  clear — it  had  been  the  imper- 
fect attempt  of  novices  in  the  art  of  sorcery;  now  it  was  more 
matured,  and  the  wills  of  the  perpetrators  were  more  bent  upon 


THE   BETROTHED  471 

their  infernal  project.  Now,  had  any  one  still  maintained  that 
it  had  been  a  mere  trick,  had  any  one  still  denied  the  exist- 
ence of  a  conspiracy,  he  would  have  passed  for  a  deluded  or 
obstinate  person;  if,  indeed,  he  would  not  have  fallen  under 
the  suspicion  of  being  interested  in  diverting  public  scrutiny 
from  the  truth,  of  being  an  accomplice,  a  poisoner.  The  term 
very  soon  became  common,  solemn,  tremendous.  With  such 
a  persuasion,  that  poisoners  they  were,  some  must  almost  in- 
fallibly be  discovered:  all  eyes  were  on  the  look-out;  every 
act  might  excite  jealousy;  and  jealousy  easily  became  cer- 
tainty, and  certainty  fury. 

Ripamonti  relates  two  instances,  informing  us  that  he 
had  selected  them,  not  as  the  most  outrageous  among  the 
many  which  daily  occurred,  but  because,  unhappily,  he  could 
speak  of  both  as  an  eye-witness. 

In  the  church  of  Sant'  Antonio,  on  the  day  of  I  know  not 
what  solemnity,  an  old  man,  more  than  eighty  years  of  age, 
was  observed,  after  kneeling  in  prayer,  to  sit  down,  first,  how- 
ever dusting  the  bench  with  his  cloak.  "  That  old  man  is 
anointing  the  benches ! "  exclaimed  with  one  voice  some 
women,  who  witnessed  the  act.  The  people  who  happened  to 
be  in  church  (in  church!)  fell  upon  the  old  man;  they  tore 
his  grey  locks,  heaped  upon  him  blows  and  kicks,  and  dragged 
him  out  half  dead,  to  convey  him  to  prison,  to  the  judges,  to 
torture.  "  I  beheld  him  dragged  along  in  this  way,"  says 
Ripamonti,  "  nor  could  I  learn  anything  further  about  his 
end;  but,  indeed,  I  think  he  could  not  have  survived  many 
moments," 

The  other  instance,  which  occurred  the  following  day,  was 
equally  strange,  but  not  equally  fatal.  Three  French  youths, 
in  company,  one  a  scholar,  one  a  painter,  and  the  third  a 
mechanic,  who  had  come  to  see  Italy,  to  study  its  antiquities, 
and  to  try  and  make  money,  had  approached  I  know  not  ex- 
actly what  part  of  the  exterior  of  the  cathedral,  and  stood  at- 
tentively surveying  it.  One,  two,  or  more  passers-by,  stopped, 
and  formed  a  little  group,  to  contemplate  and  keep  their  eye 
on  these  visitors,  whom  their  costume,  their  head-dress,  and 
their  wallets,  proclaimed  to  be  strangers,  and,  what  was  worse. 
Frenchmen.  As  if  to  assure  themselves  that  it  was  marble, 
they  stretched  out  their  hands  to  touch  it.  This  was  enough. 
They  were  surrounded,  seized,  tormented,  and  urged  by  blows 
to  prison.  Fortunately,  the  hall  of  justice  was  not  far  from 
the  cathedral,  and  by  still  greater  good  fortune,  they  were 
found  innocent,  and  set  at  liberty. 

Nor  did  such  things  happen  only  in  the  city;  the  frenzy 


472 


MANZONI 


had  spread  like  the  contagion.  The  traveller  who  was  met 
by  peasants  out  of  the  highway,  or  on  the  public  road  was 
seen  loitering  and  amusing  himself,  or  stretched  upon  the 
ground  to  rest;  the  stranger  in  whom  they  fancied  they  saw 
something  singular  and  suspicious  in  countenance  or  dress — 
these  were  poisoners;  at  the  first  report  of  whomsoever  it 
might  be — at  the  cry  of  a  child — the  alarm  was  given,  and  the 
people  flocked  together;  the  unhappy  victims  were  pelted 
with  stones,  or,  if  taken,  were  violently  dragged  to  prison. 
And  the  prison,  up  to  a  certain  period,  became  a  haven  of 
safety. 

But  the  Decurioni,  not  discouraged  by  the  refusal  of  the 
judicious  prelate,  continued  to  repeat  their  entreaties,  which 
were  noisily  seconded  by  the  popular  vote.  The  Bishop  per- 
severed for  some  time,  and  endeavoured  to  dissuade  them: 
so  much  and  no  more  could  the  discretion  of  one  man  do 
against  the  judgment  of  the  times,  and  the  pertinacity  of  the 
many.  In  this  state  of  opinion,  with  the  idea  of  danger,  con- 
fused as  it  was  at  that  period,  disputed,  and  very  far  from  pos- 
sessing the  evidence  which  we  have  for  it,  it  will  not  be  diffi- 
cult to  comprehend  how  his  good  reasons  might,  even  in  his 
own  mind,  be  overcome  by  the  bad  ones  of  others.  Whether, 
besides,  in  his  subsequent  concession,  a  feebleness  of  will  had 
or  had  not  any  share,  is  a  mystery  of  the  human  heart.  Cer- 
tainly if,  in  any  case,  it  be  possible  to  attribute  error  wholly  to 
the  intellect,  and  to  relieve  the  conscience  of  responsibility,  it 
is  when  one  treats  of  those  rare  persons  (and,  assuredly,  the 
Cardinal  was  of  the  number),  throughout  whose  whole  life  is 
seen  a  resolute  obedience  to  conscience,  without  regard  to 
temporal  interests  of  any  kind.  On  the  repetition  of  the  en- 
treaties, then,  he  yielded,  gave  his  consent  to  the  procession, 
and  further,  to  the  desire,  the  general  eagerness,  that  the  urn 
which  contained  the  relics  of  San  Carlo  should  afterward  re- 
main exposed  for  eight  days  to  the  public  concourse,  on  the 
high  altar  of  the  cathedral. 

I  do  not  find  that  the  Board  of  Health,  or  the  other  au- 
thorities, made  any  opposition  or  remonstrance  of  any  kind. 
The  above-named  Board  merely  ordered  some  precautions, 
which,  without  obviating  the  danger,  indicated  their  appre- 
hension of  it.  They  gave  more  strict  regulations  about  the  ad- 
mission of  persons  into  the  city,  and,  to  insure  the  execution 
of  them,  kept  all  the  gates  shut:  as  also,  in  order  to  exclude 
from  the  concourse,  as  far  as  possible,  the  infected  and  sus- 
pected, they  caused  the  doors  of  the  condemned  houses  to  be 
nailed  up;  which,  so  far  as  the  bare  assertion  of  a  writer — and 


THE   BETROTHED  473 

a  writer  of  those  times — is  to  be  valued  in  such  matters, 
amounted  to  about  five  hundred. 

Three  days  were  spent  in  preparations;  and  on  the  nth 
of  June,  which  was  the  day  fixed,  the  procession  started  by 
early  dawn  from  the  cathedral.  A  long  file  of  people  led  the 
way,  chiefly  women,  their  faces  covered  with  ample  silken 
veils,  and  many  of  them  barefoot,  and  clothed  in  sackcloth. 
Then  followed  bands  of  artificers,  preceded  by  their  several 
banners,  the  different  fraternities,  in  habits  of  various  shades 
and  colours;  then  came  the  brotherhood  of  monks,  then  the 
secular  clergy,  each  with  the  insignia  of  his  rank,  and  bearing 
a  lighted  wax  taper.  In  the  centre,  amid  the  brilliancy  of 
still  more  numerous  torches,  and  the  louder  tones  of  the  chant- 
ing, came  the  cof^n,  under  a  rich  canopy,  supported  alternate- 
ly by  four  canons  most  pompously  attired.  Through  the 
crystal  sides  appeared  the  venerated  corpse,  the  limbs  envel- 
oped in  splendid  pontificial  robes,  and  the  skull  covered  with 
a  mitre;  and  under  the  mutilated  and  decomposed  features, 
some  traces  might  still  be  distinguished  of  his  former  counte- 
nance, such  as  it  was  represented  in  pictures,  and  as  some 
remembered  seeing  and  honouring  it  during  his  life.  Behind 
the  mortal  remains  of  the  deceased  pastor  (says  Ripamonti, 
from  whom  we  chiefly  have  taken  this  description),  and 
near  him  in  person,  as  well  as  in  merit,  blood,  and  dignity, 
came  the  Archbishop  Federigo.  Then  followed  the  rest  of 
the  clergy,  and  close  behind  them  the  magistrates,  in  their 
best  robes  of  office;  after  them  the  nobility,  some  sumptu- 
ously apparelled,  as  for  a  solemn  celebration  of  worship,  oth- 
ers in  token  of  humiliation,  clothed  in  mourning,  or  walking 
barefoot,  covered  with  sackcloth,  and  the  hoods  drawn  over 
their  faces,  all  bearing  large  torches.  A  mingled  crowd  of 
people  brought  up  the  rear. 

The  whole  street  was  decked  out  as  at  a  festival;  the  rich 
had  brought  out  their  most  showy  decorations;  the  fronts  of 
the  poorer  houses  were  ornamented  by  their  wealthier  neigh- 
bours, or  at  the  public  expense;  here  and  there,  instead  of 
ornaments,  or  over  the  ornaments  themselves,  were  leafy 
branches  of  trees;  everywhere  were  suspended  pictures,  mot- 
toes, and  emblematical  devices;  on  the  window-ledges  were 
displayed  vases,  curiosities  of  antiquity,  and  valuable  orna- 
ments; and  in  every  direction  were  torches.  At  many  of 
these  windows  the  sick,  who  were  put  under  sequestration,  be- 
held the  pomp,  and  mingled  their  prayers  with  those  of  the 
passengers.  The  other  streets  were  silent  and  deserted,  save 
where  some  few  listened  at  the  windows  to  the  floating  mur- 


474 


MANZONI 


miir  In  the  distance;  while  others,  and  among  these  even  nuns 
might  be  seen,  mounted  upon  the  roofs,  perchance  they  might 
be  able  to  distinguish  afar  off  the  coffin,  the  retinue — in  short, 
something. 

The  procession  passed  through  all  quarters  of  the  city;  at 
each  of  the  crossways,  or  small  squares,  which  terminate  the 
principal  streets  in  the  suburbs,  and  which  then  preserved  the 
ancient  name  of  carrobii,  now  reduced  to  only  one,  they  made 
a  halt,  depositing  the  cofhn  near  the  cross  which  had  been 
erected  in  every  one  by  San  Carlo,  during  the  preceding  pes- 
tilence, some  of  which  are  still  standing;  so  that  they  returned 
not  to  the  cathedral  till  considerably  past  midday. 
^  -  But  lo!  the  day  following,  just  while  the  presumptuous 
confidence,  nay,  in  many,  the  fanatical  assurance  prevailed, 
that  the  procession  must  have  cut  short  the  progress  of  the 
plague,  the  mortality  increased  in  every  class,  in  every  part 
of  the  city,  to  such  a  degree,  and  with  so  sudden  a  leap,  that 
there  was  scarcely  any  one  who  did  not  behold  in  the  very  pro- 
cession itself,  the  cause  and  occasion  of  this  fearful  increase. 
But,  oh  wonderful  and  melancholy  force  of  popular  preju- 
dices! the  greater  number  did  not  attribute  this  effect  to  so 
great  and  so  prolonged  a  crowding  together  of  persons,  nor  to 
the  infinite  multiplication  of  fortuitous  contact,  but  rather  to 
the  facilities  afforded  to  the  poisoners  of  executing  their  iniqui- 
tous designs  on  a  large  scale.  It  was  said  that,  mixing  in  the 
crowd,  they  had  infected  with  their  ointment  everybody  they 
had  encountered.  But  as  this  appeared  neither  a  sufficient  nor 
appropriate  means  for  producing  so  vast  a  mortality,  which 
extended  itself  to  every  rank;  as,  apparently,  it  had  not  been 
possible,  even  for  an  eye  the  most  watchful,  and  the  most 
quick-sighted  from  suspicion,  to  detect  any  unctuous  matter, 
or  spots  of  any  kind,  during  the  march,  recourse  v/as  had  for 
the  explanation  of  the  fact  to  that  other  fabrication,  already 
ancient,  and  received  at  that  time  into  the  common  scientific 
learning  of  Europe,  of  magical  and  venomous  powders;  it 
was  said  that  these  powders,  scattered  along  the  streets,  and 
chiefly  at  the  places  of  halting,  had  clung  to  the  trains  of  the 
dresses,  and  still  more  to  the  feet  of  those  who  had  that  day. 
In  great  numbers,  gone  about  barefoot.  "  That  very  day, 
therefore,  of  the  procession,"  says  a  contemporary  writer, 
"  saw  piety  contending  with  Iniquity,  perfidy  with  sincerity, 
and  loss  with  acquisition."  It  was,  on  the  contrary,  poor  hu- 
man sense  contending:  with  the  phantoms  It  had  Itself  created. 

From  that  day,  the  contagion  continued  to  rage  with  In- 
creasing violence;  In  a  little  while,  there  was  scarcely  a  house 


THE   BETROTHED. 


475 


left  untouched ;  and  the  population  of  the  Lazzeretto,  accord- 
ing to  Somaglia  above  quoted,  amounted  to  from  two  to 
twelve  thousand.  In  the  course  of  time,  according  to  almost 
all  reports,  it  reached  sixteen  thousand.  On  the  fourth  of 
July,  as  I  find  in  another  letter  from  the  conservators  of  health 
to  the  governor,  the  daily  mortality  exceeded  five  hundred. 
Still  later,  when  the  plague  was  at  its  height,  it  reached,  and 
for  some  time  remained  at,  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred,  accord- 
ing to  the  most  common  computation;  and  if  we  may  credit 
Tadino,  it  sometimes  even  exceeded  three  thousand  five  hun- 
dred. 

It  may  be  imagined  wdiat  must  now  have  been  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  Decurioni,  upon  w'hom  was  laid  the  burden  of 
providing  for  the  public  necessities,  and  repairing  wdiat  was 
still  reparable  in  such  a  calamity.  They  w-ere  obliged  every 
day  to  replace,  every  day  to  augment,  public  officers  of  numer- 
ous kinds:  Monatti,  by  which  denomination  (even  then  at 
Milan  of  ancient  date,  and  uncertain  origin)  w^ere  designated 
those  who  w^ere  devoted  to  the  most  painful  and  dangerous 
services  of  a  pestilence,  viz.,  taking  corpses  from  the  houses, 
out  of  the  streets,  and  from  the  Lazzeretto,  transporting  them 
on  carts  to  the  graves,  and  burying  them;  carrying  or  con- 
ducting the  sick  to  the  Lazzeretto,  overlooking  them  there, 
and  burning  and  cleansing  infected  or  suspected  goods:  Ap- 
paritori,  whose  special  office  it  was  to  precede  the  carts,  warn- 
ing passengers,  by  the  sound  of  a  little  bell,  to  retire:  and 
Commissarii,  who  superintended  both  the  other  classes,  under 
the  immediate  orders  of  the  Board  of  Health.  The  Council 
had  also  to  keep  the  Lazzeretto  furnished  w4th  physicians,  sur- 
geons, medicines,  food,  and  all  the  other  necessaries  of  an  in- 
firmary; and  to  provide  and  prepare  new  quarters  for  the  new- 
ly arising  needs.  For  this  purpose,  they  had  cabins  of  wood 
and  straw  hastily  constructed,  in  the  unoccupied  space  w'ith- 
in  the  Lazzeretto;  and  another  Lazzeretto  was  erected,  also  of 
thatched  cabins,  with  an  enclosure  of  boards,  capable  of  con- 
taining four  thousand  persons.  These  not  being  sufficient, 
two  others  were  decreed;  they  even  began  to  build  them,  but, 
from  the  deficiency  of  means  of  every  kind,  they  remained  un- 
completed. Means,  men,  and  courage  failed,  in  proportion 
as  the  necessity  for  them  increased.  And  not  only  did  the  exe- 
cution fall  so  .far  short  of  the  projects  and  decrees — not  only 
were  many  too  clearly  acknowledged  necessities  deficiently 
provided  for,  even  in  words,  but  they  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of 
impotency  and  desperation,  that  many  of  the  most  deplorable 
and  urgent  cases  were  left  without  succour  of  any  kind.     A 


476 


MANZONI 


great  number  of  infants,  for  example,  died  of  absolute  neglect, 
their  mothers  having  been  carried  off  by  the  pestilence.  The 
Board  of  Health  proposed  that  a  place  of  refuge  should  be 
founded  for  these,  and  for  destitute  lying-in  women,  that 
something  might  be  done  for  them,  but  they  could  obtain 
nothing.  **  The  Decurioni  of  the  Citie,"  says  Tadino,  ''  were 
no  less  to  be  pityed,  who  found  themselves  harrassed  and  op- 
pressed by  the  Soldierie  without  any  Bounds  or  Regarde 
whatsoever,  as  well  as  those  in  the  unfortunate  Duchy,  seeing 
that  they  could  get  no  Help  or  Proiusion  from  the  Gouernor, 
because  it  happened  to  be  a  Tyme  of  War,  and  they  must 
needs  treat  the  Soldierie  well."  So  important  was  the  taking 
of  Casale!  so  glorious  appeared  the  fame  of  victory,  independ- 
ent of  the  cause,  of  the  object,  for  which  they  contended! 

So,  also,  an  ample  but  solitary  grave  which  had  been  dug 
near  the  Lazzeretto  being  completely  filled  with  corpses;  and 
fresh  bodies,  which  became  day  by  day  more  numerous,  re- 
maining therefore  in  every  direction  unburied,  the  magis- 
trates, after  having  in  vain  sought  for  hands  to  execute  the 
melancholy  task,  were  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  they 
knew  not  what  course  to  pursue.  Nor  was  it  easy  to  conjec- 
ture what  would  be  the  end,  had  not  extraordinary  relief  been 
afforded.  The  President  of  the  Board  of  Health  solicited  it 
almost  in  despair,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  from  those  two 
excellent  friars  who  presided  at  the  Lazzeretto;  and  Father 
Michele  pledged  himself  to  clear  the  city  of  dead  bodies  in 
the  course  of  four  days.  At  the  expiration  of  eight  days  he 
had  not  only  provided  for  the  immediate  necessity,  but  for  that 
also  which  the  most  ominous  foresight  could  have  anticipated 
for  the  future.  With  a  friar  for  his  companion,  and  with  offi- 
cers granted  him  for  this  purpose  by  the  President,  he  set  off 
out  of  the  city  in  search  of  peasants ;  and  partly  by  the  author- 
ity of  the  Board  of  Health,  partly  by  the  influence  of  his  habit 
and  his  words,  he  succeeded  in  collecting  two  hundred,  whom 
he  distributed  in  three  separate  places,  to  dig  the  ample  graves. 
He  then  despatched  monatti  from  the  Lazzeretto  to  collect 
the  dead,  and  on  the  day  appointed  his  promise  was  fulfilled. 

On  one  occasion,  the  Lazzeretto  was  left  destitute  of  physi- 
cians; and  it  was  only  by  offers  of  large  salaries  and  honours, 
with  much  labour,  and  considerable  delay,  that  they  could 
procure  them;  and  even  then  their  number  was  far  from  suf^- 
cient  for  the  need.  It  was  often  so  reduced  in  provisions  as 
to  raise  fears  that  the  inmates  would  actually  have  to  die  of 
starvation;  and  more  than  once,  while  they  were  trying  every 
method  of  raising  money  or  supplies,  with  scarcely  a  hope  of 


THE    BETROTHED 


477 


procuring  them — not  to  say  of  procuring  them  in  time — abun- 
dant assistance  would  most  opportunely  be  afforded  by  the 
unexpected  gift  of  some  charitable  private  individual;  for,  in 
the  midst  of  the  common  stupefaction  and  indifference  to  oth- 
ers, arising  from  continual  apprehensions  for  themselves,  there 
were  yet  hearts  ever  awake  to  the  call  of  charity,  and  others  in 
whom  charity  first  sprang  up  on  the  failure  of  all  earthly  pleas- 
ures; as,  in  the  destruction  and  flight  of  many  whose  duty  it 
was  to  superintend  and  provide,  there  were  others,  ever  healthy 
in  body  and  unshaken  in  courage,  who  were  always  at  their 
posts;  while  some  there  even  were  who,  urged  by  compas- 
sion, assumed,  and  perseveringly  sustained,  cares  to  which 
their  office  did  not  call  them. 

The  most  general  and  most  willing  fidelity  to  the  trying 
duties  of  the  times,  was  conspicuously  evinced  by  the  clergy. 
In  the  Lazzerettoes,  and  throughout  the  city,  their  assistance 
never  failed;  where  suffering  was,  there  were  they;  they  were 
always  to  be  seen  mingled  with  and  interspersed  among  the 
faint  and  dying — faint  and  dying  sometimes  themselves.  To- 
gether with  spiritual  succours,  they  were  lavish,  as  far  as  they 
could  be,  of  temporal  ones,  and  freely  rendered  whatever  serv- 
ices happened  to  be  required.  More  than  sixty  parish  priests, 
in  the  city  alone,  died  of  the  contagion:  about  eight  out  of 
every  nine. 

Federigo,  as  was  to  be  expected  from  him,  gave  to  all  en- 
couragement and  example.  Having  seen  almost  the  whole  of 
his  archiepiscopal  household  perish  around  him,  solicited  by 
relatives,  by  the  first  magistrates,  and  by  the  neighbouring 
princes  to  withdraw  from  danger  to  some  solitary  country-seat, 
he  rejected  this  counsel  and  these  entreaties  in  the  spirit  with 
which  he  wrote  to  his  clergy:  "  Be  ready  to  abandon  this  mor- 
tal life,  rather  than  the  family,  the  children,  committed  to  us; 
go  forward  into  the  plague,  as  to  life,  as  to  a  reward,  when 
there  is  one  soul  to  be  won  to  Christ."  He  neglected  no 
precautions  which  did  not  impede  him  in  his  duty;  on  which 
point  he  also  gave  instructions  and  regulations  to  his  clergy; 
and,  at  the  same  time,  he  minded  not,  nor  appeared  to  ob- 
serve, danger,  where  it  was  necessary  to  encounter  it,  in  order 
to  do  good.  Without  speaking  of  the  ecclesiastics,  whom  he 
was  constantly  with,  to  commend  and  regulate  their  zeal,  to 
arouse  such  as  were  lukewarm  in  the  work,  and  to  send  them 
to  the  posts  where  others  had  perished,  it  was  his  wish  that 
there  should  always  be  free  access  for  any  one  who  had  need 
of  him.  He  visited  the  Lazzerettoes,  to  administer  consola- 
tion to  the  sick,  and  encouragement  to  the  attendants;  he 


478  MANZONI 

traversed  the  city,  carrying  relief  to  the  poor  creatures  seques- 
trated in  their  houses,  stopping  at  the  doors  and  under  the 
windows  to  hsten  to  their  lamentations,  and  to  offer  in  ex- 
change words  of  comfort  and  encouragement.  In  short,  he 
threw  himself  into,  and  lived  in  the  midst  of,  the  pestilence, 
and  was  himself  astonished,  at  the  end,  that  he  had  come  out 
uninjured. 

Thus,  in  public  calamities  and  in  long-continued  disturb- 
ance of  settled  habits,  of  whatever  kind,  there  may  always  be 
beheld  an  augmentation,  a  sublimation  of  virtue;  but,  alas! 
there  is  never  wanting,  at  the  same  time,  an  augmentation,  far 
more  general  in  most  cases,  of  crime.  This  occasion  was  re- 
markable for  it.  The  villains  whom  the  pestilence  spared  and 
did  not  terrify,  found  in  the  common  confusion,  and  in  the  re- 
laxation of  all  public  authority,  a  new  opportunity  of  activity, 
together  with  new  assurances  of  impunity;  nay,  the  admin- 
istration of  public  authority  itself  came,  in  a  great  measure,  to 
be  lodged  in  the  hands  of  the  worst  among  them.  Generally 
speaking,  none  devoted  themselves  to  the  offices  of  monatti 
and  apparitori  but  men  over  whom  the  attractions  of  rapine 
and  license  had  more  influence  than  the  terror  of  contagion, 
or  any  natural  object  of  horror. 

The  strictest  orders  Avcre  laid  upon  these  people;  the  se- 
verest penalties  threatened  to  them;  stations  were  assigned 
them;  and  commissaries,  as  we  have  said,  placed  over  them: 
over  both,  again,  magistrates  and  nobles  were  appointed  in 
every  district,  with  authority  to  enforce  good  government 
summarily  on  every  opportunity.  Such  a  state  of  things  went 
on  and  took  effect  up  to  a  certain  period;  but,  with  the  in- 
crease of  deaths  and  desolation,  and  the  terror  of  the  survivors, 
these  officers  came  to  be,  as  it  were,  exempted  from  all  super- 
vision; they  constituted  themselves,  the  monatti  especially, 
arbiters  of  everything.  They  entered  the  houses  like  masters, 
like  enemies;  and,  not  to  mention  their  plunder,  and  how  they 
treated  the  unhappy  creatures  reduced  by  the  plague  to  pass 
through  such  hands,  they  laid  them — these  infected  and  guilty 
hands — on  the  healthy — children,  parents,  husbands,  wives, 
threatening  to  drag  them  to  the  Lazzeretto,  unless  they  re- 
deemed themselves,  or  were  redeemed  wdth  money.  At  other 
places  they  set  a  price  upon  their  services,  refusing  to  carry 
away  bodies  already  corrupted,  for  less  than  so  many  scudl. 
It  was  believed  (and  between  the  credulity  of  one  party  and 
the  wickedness  of  the  other,  belief  and  disbelief  are  equally  un- 
certain), it  was  believed,  and  Tadino  asserts  it,  that  both  mo- 
natti and  apparitori  purposely  let  fall  from  their  carts  infected 


THE   BETROTHED  479 

clothes,  in  order  to  propagate  and  keep  up  the  pestilence, 
which  had  become  to  them  a  means  of  living,  a  kingdom,  a 
festival.  Other  wretches,  feigning  to  be  monatti,  and  carry- 
ing little  bells  tied  to  their  feet,  as  these  officers  were  required 
to  do,  to  distinguish  themselves  and  to  give  warning  of  their 
approach,  introduced  themselves  into  houses,  and  there  exer- 
cised all  kinds  of  tyranny.  Some  of  these,  open  and  void  of 
inhabitants,  or  inhabited  only  by  a  feeble  or  dying  creature, 
were  entered  by  thieves  in  search  of  booty,  with  impunity; 
others  were  surprised  and  invaded  by  bailiffs,  who  there  com- 
mitted robberies  and  excesses  of  every  description. 

Together  with  the  wickedness,  the  folly  of  the  people  in- 
creased: every  prevailing  error  received  more  or  less  addi- 
tional force  from  the  stupefaction  and  agitation  of  their  minds, 
and  was  more  widely  and  more  precipitately  applied;  while 
every  one  served  to  strengthen  and  aggravate  that  special 
mania  about  poisonings,  which,  in  its  effects  and  ebullitions, 
was  often,  as  v/e  have  seen,  itself  another  crime.  The  image 
of  this  supposed  danger  beset  and  tortured  the  minds  of  the 
people  far  more  than  the  real  and  existing  danger. 

*'  And  while,"  says  Ripamonti,  *'  corpses,  scattered  here 
and  there,  or  lying  in  heaps,  ever  before  the  eyes  and  sur- 
rounding the  steps  of  the  living,  made  the  whole  city  like  one 
immense  sepulchre,  a  still  more  appalling  symptom,  a  more 
intense  deformity,  was  their  mutual  animosity,  their  licentious- 
ness, and  their  extravagant  suspicions.  .  .  .  Not  only  did 
they  mistrust  a  friend,  a  guest;  but  those  names  which  are 
the  bonds  of  human  affection,  husband  and  wife,  father  and 
son,  brother  and  brother,  w^ere  words  of  terror;  and,  dreadful 
and  infamous  to  tell!  the  domestic  board,  the  nuptial  bed, 
were  dreaded  as  lurking-places,  as  receptacles  of  poison." 

The  imaginary  vastness  and  strangeness  of  the  plot  dis- 
tracted the  people's  understandings,  and  subverted  every  rea- 
son for  reciprocal  confidence.  Besides  ambition  and  cupidity, 
which  were  at  first  supposed  to  be  the  motives  of  the  poison- 
ers, they  fancied,  they  even  believed  at  length,  that  there  was 
something  of  diabolical,  voluptuous  delight  in  this  anointing 
— an  attraction  predominating  over  the  will.  The  ravings  of 
the  sick,  who  accused  themselves  of  what  they  had  apprehend- 
ed from  others,  were  considered  as  revelations,  and  rendered 
anything,  so  to  say,  credible  of  any  one.  And  it  would  have 
far  greater  weight  even  than  words,  if  it  happened  that  delir- 
ious patients  kept  practising  those  manoeuvres  which  it  was 
imagined  must  be  employed  by  the  poisoners:  a  thing  at  once 
very  probable,  and  tending  to  give  better  grounds  for  the 


48o  MANZONI 

popular  persuasion  and  the  assertions  of  numerous  writers. 
In  the  same  way,  during  the  long  and  mournful  period  of  judi- 
cial investigation  on  the  subject  of  witchcraft,  the  confessions, 
and  those  not  always  extorted,  of  the  accused,  served  not  a 
little  to  promote  and  uphold  the  prevailing  opinion  on  this 
matter;  for  when  an  opinion  obtains  a  prolonged  and  exten- 
sive sway,  it  is  expressed  in  every  manner,  tries  every  outlet, 
and  runs  through  every  degree  of  persuasion;  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  all,  or  very  many,  to  believe  for  a  length  of  time  that 
something  extraordinary  is  being  done,  without  some  one 
coming  forward  who  believes  that  he  has  done  it. 

Among  the  stories  which  this  mania  about  poisoning  gave 
rise  to,  one  deserves  to  be  mentioned  for  the  credit  it  acquired, 
and  the  extended  dissemination  it  met  with.  It  was  related, 
not,  however,  by  everybody  in  the  same  way  (for  that  would 
be  too  remarkable  a  privilege  for  stories),  but  nearly  so,  that 
such  a  person,  on  such  a  day,  had  seen  a  carriage  and  six 
standing  in  the  Square  of  the  Cathedral,  containing  some 
great  personage  with  a  large  suite,  of  lordly  aspect,  but  dark 
and  sunburnt,  with  fiery  eyes,  hair  standing  on  end,  and  a 
threatening  expression  about  the  mouth.  The  spectator,  in- 
vited to  enter  the  equipage,  complied;  and  after  taking  a  turn 
or  two,  stopped  and  dismounted  at  the  gate  of  a  palace,  where, 
entering  with  the  rest,  he  beheld  horrors  and  delights,  deserts 
and  gardens,  caverns  and  halls;  and  in  these  were  phantoms 
seated  in  council.  Lastly,  huge  chests  of  money  were  shown 
to  him,  and  he  was  told  that  he  might  take  as  much  as  he 
liked,  if,  at  the  same  time,  h^  would  accept  a  little  vessel  of 
unctuous  matter,  and  go  about,  anointing  with  it,  through  the 
city.  Having  refused  to  agree  to  the  terms,  he  instantly 
found  himself  in  the  place  whence  he  had  been  taken. 

This  story,  generally  believed  there  by  the  people,  and,  ac- 
cording to  Ripamonti,  not  sufftciently  ridiculed  by  many 
learned  men,  travelled  through  the  whole  of  Italy,  and  even 
further:  an  engraving  of  it  was  made  in  Germany;  and  the 
electoral  Archbishop  of  Mayence  wrote  to  Cardinal  Federigo, 
to  ask  what  he  must  believe  of  the  wonderful  prodigies  related 
at  Milan,  and  received  for  answer  that  they  were  mere  dreams. 

Of  equal  value,  if  not  exactly  of  the  same  nature,  were 
the  dreams  of  the  learned;  and  equally  disastrous  were  they 
in  their  effects.  Most  of  them  saw  the  announcement  at  once 
and  cause  of  their  troubles,  in  a  comet  which  appeared  in  the 
year  1628,  and  in  a.  conjunction  of  Saturn  with  Jupiter;  ''the 
aforesaide  Conjunction,"  writes  Tadino,  "  inclining  so  clearlie 
over  this  Yeare  1630,  that  every  Bodie  could  understand  it. 


THE   BETROTHED 


481 


Mortalcs  parat  morbos,  miranda  vidcntur."  This  prediction, 
fabricated  I  know  not  when  nor  by  whom,  was  upon  the 
tongue,  as  Ripamonti  informs  us,  of  everybody  who  was  able 
to  utter  it.  Another  comet,  which  unexpectedly  appeared  in 
the  June  of  the  very  year  of  the  pestilence,  was  looked  upon  as 
a  fresh  warning,  as  an  evident  proof,  indeed,  of  the  anointing. 
They  ransacked  books,  and  found  only  in  too  great  abundance 
examples  of  pestilence  produced,  as  they  said,  by  human  ef- 
forts; they  quoted  Livy,  Tacitus,  Dionysius,  Homer,  and 
Ovid,  and  the  numberless  other  ancients  who  have  related  or 
alluded  to  similar  events;  and  of  modern  writers  they  had  a 
still  greater  abundance.  They  cited  a  hundred  other  authors, 
who  have  treated  theoretically,  or  incidentally  spoken,  of  poi- 
sons, sorceries,  unctions,  and  powders;  Cesalpino  was  quoted, 
Cardano,  Grevino,  Salio,  Pareo,  Schenchio,  Zachia,  and  final- 
ly, that  fatal  Delrio,  who,  if  the  renown  of  authors  were  in  pro- 
portion to  the  good  or  evil  produced  by  their  works,  would 
assuredly  be  one  of  the  most  eminent;  that  Delrio,  wdiose  Dis- 
quisitions on  Magic  (a  digest  of  all  that  men,  up  to  his  time, 
had  wildly  devised  on  this  subject),  received  as  the  most  au- 
thoritative and  irrefragable  text-book,  was  for  more  than  a 
century,  the  rule  and  powerful  impulse  of  legal,  horrible,  and 
uninterrupted  murders. 

From  the  inventions  of  the  illiterate  vulgar,  educated  peo- 
ple borrowed  what  they  could  accommodate  to  their  ideas; 
from  the  inventions  of  the  educated  the  vulgar  borrowed  what 
they  could  understand,  and  as  they  best  could;  and  of  all,  an 
undigested,  barbarous  jumble  was  formed  of  public  irration- 
ality. 

But  that  which  still  further  excites  our  surprise  is  to  see 
the  physicians,  those  physicians,  I  say,  who  from  the  begin- 
ning had  believed  in  the  plague,  and  especially  Tadino,  who 
had  predicted  it,  beheld  it  enter,  and  kept  his  eye,  so  to  say,  on 
its  progress;  who  had  affirmed  and  published  that  it  was  the 
plague,  and  was  propagated  by  contact,  and  that  if  no  opposi- 
tion were  made  to  it,  it  would  become  a  general  infection — to 
see  him,  I  say,  draw  a  certain  argument  from  these  very  con- 
sequences, for  poisonous  and  magical  unctions;  to  behold 
him,  w^ho  in  Carlo  Colonna,  the  second  that  died  in  ]\lilan, 
had  marked  delirium  as  an  accompaniment  of  the  malady, 
afterward  adduce  in  proof  of  unctions  and  a  diabolical  plot  an 
incident  such  as  this: — two  witnesses  deposed  to  having  heard 
one  of  their  friends,  under  the  influence  of  the  contagion,  re- 
late how  some  persons  came  one  night  into  his  room,  to  prof- 
fer him  health  and  riches,  if  he  would  anoint  the  houses  in  the 
31 


482 


MANZONI 


« 


vicinity,  and  how,  on  his  repeated  refusal,  they  had  taken  their 
departure,  and  left  in  their  stead  a  wolf  under  the  bed,  and 
three  great  cats  upon  it,  "  which  remained  there  till  break  of 
day."  Had  such  a  method  of  drawing  conclusions  been  con- 
fined to  one  individual,  it  might  have  been  attributed  to  his 
own  extreme  simplicity  and  want  of  common  sense,  and  it 
would  not  have  been  worth  our  while  to  mention  it;  but,  as  it 
was  received  by  many,  it  is  a  specimen  of  the  human  mind; 
and  may  serve  to  show  how  a  well-regulated  and  reasonable 
train  of  ideas  may  be  disordered  by  another  train  of  ideas 
thrown  directly  across  it.  In  other  respects  this  Tadino  was 
one  of  the  most  renowned  men  of  his  time  at  Milan. 

Two  illustrious  and  highly-deserving  writers  have  asserted 
that  Cardinal  Federigo  entertained  some  doubt  about  these 
poisonings.  We  would  gladly  give  still  more  complete  com- 
mendation to  the  memory  of  this  excellent  and  benevolent 
man,  and  represent  the  good  prelate  in  this,  as  in  many  other 
things,  distinguished  from  the  multitude  of  his  contempora- 
ries; but  we  are  constrained,  instead,  to  remark  in  him,  an- 
other example  of  the  powerful  influence  of  public  opinion, 
even  on  the  most  exalted  minds.  It  is  evident — from  the  way, 
at  least,  in  which  Ripamonti  relates  his  thought3  on  the  sub- 
ject— that  from  the  beginning  he  had  had  some  doubts  about 
it;  and  throughout  he  always  considered  that  credulity,  igno- 
rance, fear,  and  a  wish  to  excuse  their  long  negligence  in 
guarding  against  the  contagion,  had  a  considerable  share  in 
this  opinion:  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  exaggeration  in  it; 
but  at  the  same  time  something  of  truth.  There  is  a  small 
work  on  this  pestilence,  written  by  his  own  hand,  preserved  in 
the  Ambrosian  Library;  and  the  following  is  one  among 
many  instances  where  such  a  sentiment  is  expressed: — "  On 
the  method  of  compounding  and  spreading  such  poisonous 
ointments  many  and  various  things  are  reported,  some  of 
which  we  consider  as  true,  while  others  appear  to  us  entirely 
imaginary." 

Some  there  were  who,  to  the  very  last,  and  ever  afterward, 
thought  that  it  v\^as  all  imagination;  and  we  learn  this,  not 
from  themselves,  for  no  one  had  ever  sufficient  hardihood  to 
expose  to  the  public  an  opinion  so  opnosed  to  that  of  the  pub- 
lic; but  from  those  writers  who  deride  it,  or  rebuke  it,  or  con- 
fute it,  as  the  prejudices  of  a  few,  an  error  which  no  one  had 
ever  dared  to  make  the  subject  of  open  dispute,  but  which 
nevertheless  existed;  and  we  learnt  it,  too,  from  one  who  had 
derived  it  from  tradition.  "  I  have  met  with  sensible  and  well- 
informed  people  in  Milan,"  says  the  good  Muratori  in  the 


THE   BETROTHED  483 

above-quoted  passage,  "  who  had  received  trustworthy  ac- 
counts from  their  ancestors,  and  who  were  by  no  means  per- 
suaded of  the  trutli  of  the  facts  concerning  these  poisonous 
ointments."  It  seems  there  was  a  secret  outlet  for  truth,  some 
remaining  domestic  confidence;  good  sense  still  existed;  but 
it  was  kept  concealed,  for  fear  of  the  popular  sense. 

The  magistrates,  reduced  in  number  daily,  and  disheart- 
ened and  perplexed  in  everything,  turned  all  their  little  vigi- 
lance, so  to  say,  all  the  little  resolution  of  which  they  were  any 
longer  capable,  in  search  of  these  poisoners.  And  too  easily 
did  they  think  they  had  found  them. 

The  judicial  sentences  which  followed  in  consequence 
were  not,  certainly,  the  first  of  such  a  nature;  nor,  indeed,  can 
they  be  considered  as  uncommon  in  the  history  of  jurispru- 
dence. For,  to  say  nothing  of  antiquity,  and  to  mention  only 
some  instances  in  times  more  clearly  approaching  those  of 
which  we  are  treating,  in  Geneva,  in  1530,  afterward  in  1545, 
and  again  in  1574;  in  Casale  Monferrato,  in  1536;  in  Padua,  in 
1555;  in  Turin,  in  1599;  in  Palermo,  in  1526;  and  again  in 
Turin,  this  same  year  1630;  here  one,  there  many  unhappy 
creatures  were  tried,  and  condemned  to  punishments  the  most 
atrocious,  as  guilty  of  having  propagated  the  plague  by  means 
of  powders,  ointments,  witchcraft,  or  all  these  together.  But 
the  affair  of  the  so-called  anointings  at  Milan,  as  it  was,  per- 
haps, the  longest  remembered  and  the  most  widely  talked  of, 
so,  perhaps,  it  is  the  most  worthy  of  observation;  or,  to  speak 
more  exactly,  there  is  further  room  to  make  observations 
upon  it,  from  the  remaining  existence  of  more  circumstantial 
and  more  extensive  documents.  And  although  a  writer  we 
have,  not  long  ago,  commended,  has  employed  himself  on 
them,  yet,  his  object  having  been,  not  so  much  to  give  the 
history,  properly  speaking,  as  to  extract  thence  political  sug- 
gestions, for  a  still  more  worthy  and  important  purpose,  it 
seemed  to  us  that  the  history  of  the  plague  might  form  the 
subject  of  a  new  work.  But  it  is  not  a  matter  to  be  passed 
over  in  a  few  words;  and  to  treat  it  with  the  copiousness  it 
deserves  would  carry  us  too  far  beyond  our  limits.  Besides,) 
after  we  should  have  paused  upon  all  these  incidents,  the!  f 
reader  would  certainly  no  longer  care  to  know  those  that  re-|[ 
main  in  our  narrative.  Reserving,  therefore,  for  another '=' 
publication  the  account  of  the  former,  we  will,  at  length,  re- 
turn to  our  characters,  not  to  leave  them  again  till  we  reach 
the  end. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

ONE  night,  toward  the  end  of  August,  exactly  during 
the  very  height  of  the  pestilence,  Don  Rodrigo  re- 
turned to  his  residence  at  Milan,  accompanied  by  the 
faithful  Griso,  one  of  the  three  or  four  who  remained 
to  him  out  of  his  whole  household.  He  was  returning  from  a 
company  of  friends,  who  were  accustomed  to  assemble  at  a 
banquet,  to  divert  the  melancholy  of  the  times;  and  on  each 
occasion,  some  new  friends  were  there,  some  old  ones  miss- 
ing. That  day  he  had  been  one  of  the  merriest  of  the  party; 
and,  among  other  things,  had  excited  a  great  deal  of  laughter 
among  the  company,  by  a  kind  of  funeral  eulogium  on  the 
Count  Attilio,  who  had  been  carried  off  by  the  plague  two 
days  before. 

In  walking  home,  however,  he  felt  a  languor,  a  depres- 
sion, a  weakness  in  his  limbs,  a  difficulty  of  breathing,  and  an 
inward  burning  heat,  which  he  would  willingly  have  attrib- 
uted entirely  to  the  wine,  to  late  hours,  to  the  season.  He  ut- 
tered not  a  syllable  the  whole  way;  and  the  first  word  was, 
when  they  reached  the  house,  to  order  Griso  to  light  him  to 
his  room.  When  they  were  there,  Griso  observed  the  wild 
and  heated  look  of  his  master's  face,  his  eyes  almost  starting 
from  their  sockets,  and  peculiarly  brilliant:  he  kept,  therefore, 
at  a  distance;  for,  in  these  circumstances,  every  ragamuffin 
was  obliged  to  look  for  himself,  as  the  saying  is,  with  a  medi- 
cal eye. 

"  I'm  well,  you  see,"  said  Don  Rodrigo,  who  read  in 
Griso's  action  the  thoughts  which  were  passing  in  his  mind. 
"  I'm  very  well ;  but  I've  taken  ....  I've  taken,  perhaps,  a 
little  too  much  to  drink.  There  was  some  capital  wine !  .  .  .  . 
But  with  a  good  night's  sleep,  it  will  go  off.  I'm  very  sleepy 
....  Take  that  light  away  from  before  my  eyes,  it  dazzles 
me  ....  it  teases  me!  .  .  .  ." 

"  It's  all  the  effects  of  the  wine,"  said  Griso,  still  keeping 
at  a  distance;  "but  lie  down  quickly,  for  sleep  will  do  you 
good." 

484 


THE    BETROTHED  .  485 

"You're  right;  if  I  can  sleep  ....  After  all,  I'm  well 
enough.  Put  that  little  bell  close  by  my  bed,  if  I  should  want 
anything  in  the  night:  and  be  on  the  watch,  you  know,  per- 
chance you  should  hear  me  ring.  But  I  sha'n't  want  anything 
....  Take  away  that  cursed  light  directly,"  resumed  he, 
while  Griso  executed  the  order,  approaching  him  as  little  as 

possible.      ''The  !   it  plagues   me   excessively!"     Griso 

then  took  the  light,  and  wishing  his  master  good  night,  took 
a  hasty  departure,  while  Rodrigo  buried  himself  under  the 
bed-clothes. 

But  the  counterpane  seemed  to  him  like  a  mountain.  He 
threw  it  off,  and  tried  to  compose  himself  to  rest;  for,  in  fact, 
he  was  dying  of  sleep.  But  scarcely  had  he  closed  his  eyes, 
when  he  awoke  again  with  a  start,  as  if  some  wickedly-dis- 
posed person  were  giving  him  a  shake;  and  he  felt  an  increase 
of  burning  heat,  an  increase  of  delirium.  His  thoughts  re- 
curred to  the  season,  the  wine,  and  his  debauchery;  he  would 
gladly  have  given  them  the  blame  of  all;  but  there  was  con- 
stantly substituted,  of  its  own  accord,  for  these  ideas,  that 
which  was  then  associated  with  all,  which  entered,  so  to  say, 
by  every  sense,  which  had  been  introduced  into  all  the  con- 
versations at  the  banquet,  since  it  was  much  easier  to  turn  it 
into  ridicule,  than  to  get  out  of  its  reach — the  pestilence. 

After  a  long  battle,  he  at  length  fell  asleep,  and  began 
to  dream  the  most  gloomy  and  disquieting  dreams  in  the 
world.  He  went  on  from  one  thing  to  another,  till  he  seemed 
to  find  himself  in  a  large  church,  in  the  first  ranks,  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  crowd  of  people;  there  he  was  wondering 
how  he  had  got  there,  how  the  thought  had  ever  entered  his 
head,  particularly  at  such  a  time;  and  he  felt  in  his  heart  ex- 
cessively vexed.  He  looked  at  the  bystanders;  they  had  all 
pale  emaciated  countenances,  with  staring  and  glistening  eyes, 
and  hanging 'Hps;  their  garments  were  tattered,  and  falling  to 
pieces;  and  through  the  rents  appeared  livid  spots  and  swell- 
ings. ''  Make  room,  you  rabble!  "  he  fancied  he  cried,  looking 
toward  the  door,  which  was  far,  far  away;  and  accompanying 
the  cry  with  a  threatening  expression  of  countenance,  but  with- 
out moving  a  limb;  nay,  even  drawing  up  his  body  to  avoid 
coming  in  contact  with  those  polluted  creatures,  who  crowded 
only  too  closely  upon  him  on  every  side.  But  not  one  of  the 
senseless  beings  seemed  to  move,  nor  even  to  have  heard  him; 
nay,  they  pressed  still  more  upon  him;  and,  above  all,  it  felt  as 
if  some  one  of  them  with  his  elbow,  or  whatever  it  might  be, 
was  pushing  against  his  left  side,  between  the  heart  and  the 
arm-pit,  where  he  felt  a  painful  and,  as  it  were,  heavy  pressure. 


486  MANZONI 

And  if  he  writhed  himself  to  get  rid  of  this  uneasy  feehng,  im- 
mediately a  fresh  unknown  something  began  to  prick  him  in 
the  very  same  place.  Enraged,  he  attempted  to  lay  his  hand 
on  his  sword;  and  then  it  seemed  as  if  the  thronging  of  the 
multitude  had  raised  it  up  level  with  his  chest,  and  that  it  was 
the  hilt  of  it  which  pressed  so  in  that  spot;  and  the  moment 
he  touched  it  he  felt  a  still  sharper  stitch.  He  cried  out,  pant- 
ed, and  would  have  uttered  a  still  louder  cry,  when,  behold !  all 
these  faces  turned  in  one  direction.  He  looked  the  same  way, 
perceived  a  pulpit,  and  saw  slowly  rising  above  its  edge  some- 
thing round,  smooth,  and  shining;  then  rose,  and  distinctly  ^ 
appeared,  a  bald  head;  then  two  eyes,  a  face,  a  long  and  white 
beard,  and  the  upright  figure  of  a  friar,  visible  above  the  sides 
down  to  the  girdle;  it  was  friar  Cristoforo.  Darting  a  look 
around  upon  his  audience,  he  seemed  to  Don  Rodrigo  to  fix 
his  gaze  on  him,  at  the  same  time  raising  his  hand  in  exactly 
the  attitude  he  had  assumed  in  that  room  on  the  ground  floor 
in  his  palace.  Don  Rodrigo  then  himself  lifted  up  his  hand 
in  fury,  and  made  an  effort,  as  if  to  throw  himself  forward  and 
grasp  that  arm  extended  in  the  air;  a  voice,  which  had  been 
vainly  and  secretly  struggling  in  his  throat,  burst  forth  in  a 
great  howl;  and  he  awoke.  He  dropped  the  arm  he  had  in 
reality  uplifted,  strove,  with  some  difficulty,  to  recover  the 
right  meaning  of  everything,  and  to  open  his  eyes,  for  the 
light  of  the  already  advanced  day  gave  him  no  less  uneasiness 
than  that  of  the  candle  had  done ;  recognized  his  bed  and  his 
chamber;  understood  that  all  had  been  a  dream;  the  church, 
the  people,  the  friar,  all  had  vanished — all,  but  one  thing — 
that  pain  in  his  left  side.  Together  with  this,  he  felt  a  fright- 
ful acceleration  of  palpitation  at  the  heart,  a  noise  and  hum- 
ming in  his  ears,  a  raging  fire  within,  and  a  weight  in  all  his 
limbs,  worse  than  when  he  lay  down.  He  hesitated  a  little 
before  looking  at  the  spot  that  pained  him;  at  length,  he  un- 
covered it,  and  glanced  at  it  with  a  shudder: — there  was  a 
hideous  spot,  of  a  livid  purple  hue. 

The  man  saw  himself  lost;  the  terror  of  death  seized  him, 
and,  with  perhaps  still  stronger  feeling,  the  terror  of  becom- 
ing the  prey  of  the  monatti,  of  being  carried  off,  of  being 
thrown  into  the  Lazzeretto.  And  as  he  deliberated  on  the 
way  of  avoiding  this  horrible  fate,  he  felt  his  thoughts  become 
more  perplexed  and  obscure;  he  felt  the  moment  drawing 
near  that  would  leave  him  only  consciousness  enough  to  re- 
duce him  to  despair.  He  grasped  the  bell,  and  shook  it  vio- 
lently. Griso,  who  was  on  the  alert,  immediately  answered  its 
summons.     He  stood  at  some  distance  from  the  bed,  gazed 


THE    BETROTHED 


487 


attentively  at  his  master,  and  was  at  once  convinced  of  what 
he  had  conjectured  the  night  before. 

"Griso!"  said  Don  Rodrigo,  with  difficuUy  raising  him- 
self, and  sitting  up  in  his  bed,  "  you  have  always  been  my 
trusty  servant." 

''  Yes,  Signor." 

"  I  have  always  dealt  well  by  you." 

"  Of  your  bounty." 

"  I  think  I  may  trust  you  .  .  .  ." 

"The !" 

'       "  I  am  ill,  Griso." 

"  I  had  perceived  it." 

"  If  I  recover,  I  will  heap  upon  you  more  favours  than  I 
have  ever  yet  done." 

Griso  made  no  answer,  and  stood  waiting  to  see  to  what 
all  these  preambles  would  lead. 

"  I  will  not  trust  myself  to  anybody  but  you,"  resumed 
Don  Rodrigo;  "  do  me  a  kindness,  Griso." 

"  Command  me,"  said  he,  replying  with  his  usual  formula 
to  that  unusual  one. 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  surgeon,  Chiodo,  lives?  " 

"  I  know  very  well." 

"  He  is  a  worthy  man,  who,  if  he  is  well  paid,  will  conceal 
the  sick.  Go  and  find  him;  tell  him  I  will  give  him  four,  six 
scudi  a  visit;  more,  if  he  demands  more.  Tell  him  to  come 
here  directly;  and  do  the  thing  cleverly,  so  that  nobody  may 
observe  it." 

"  Well  thought  of,"  said  Griso;  I  go,  and  return." 

"Listen,  Griso;  give  me  a  drop  of  water  first.  I  am  so 
parched  with  thirst,  I  can  bear  it  no  longer." 

"  Signor,  no,"  replied  Griso;  "nothing  without  the  doc- 
tor's leave.  These  are  ticklish  complaints;  there  is  no  time 
to  be  lost.  Keep  quiet — in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I'll  be 
here  with  Chiodo." 

So  saying,  he  went  out,  impatiently  shutting  the  door  be- 
hind him. 

Don  Rodrigo  lay  down,  and  accompanied  him,  in  imagi- 
nation, to  Chiodo's  house,  counting  the  steps,  calculating  the 
time.  Now  and  then  he  would  turn  to  look  at  his  left  side, 
but  quickly  averted  his  face  with  a  shudder.  After  some 
time,  he  began  to  listen  eagerly  for  the  surgeon's  arrival ;  and 
this  efifort  of  attention  suspended  his  sense  of  illness,  and  kept 
his  thoughts  in  some  degree  of  order.  All  of  a  sudden,  he 
heard  a  distant  sound,  which  seemed,  however,  to  come  from 
the  rooms,  not  the  street.     He  listened  still  more  intently; 


488 


MANZONI 


he  heard  it  louder,  more  quickly  repeated;  and  with  it  a 
trampling  of  footsteps.  A  horrid  suspicion  rushed  into  his 
mind.  He  sat  up,  and  gave  still  greater  attention;  he  heard 
a  dead  sound  in  the  next  room  as  if  a  weight  were  being  cau- 
tiously set  down.  He  threw  his  legs  out  of  bed,  as  if  to 
get  up;  peeped  at  the  door,  saw  it  open,  and  beheld  before 
his  eyes,  and  advancing  toward  him,  two  ragged  and  filthy 
red  dVesses,  two  ill-looking  faces — in  one  word,  two  monatti. 
He  distinguished,  too,  half  of  Griso's  face,  who,  hidden  be- 
hind the  almost  closed  door,  remained  there  on  the  look-out. 

*' Ah,  infamous  traitor!  ....  Begone,  you  rascals!  Bi-'' 
ondino!  Carlotto!  help!  I'm  murdered!"  shouted  Don  Ro- 
drigo.  He  thrust  one  hand  under  the  bolster  in  search  of  a 
pistol;  grasped  it;  drew  it  out;  but,  at  his  first  cry,  the  monatti 
had  rushed  up  to  the  bed;  the  foremost  is  upon  him  before 
he  can  do  anything  further;  he  wrenches  the  pistol  out  of  his 
hand,  throws  it  to  a  distance,  forces  him  to  lie  down  again, 
and  keeps  him  there,  crying  with  a  grin  of  fury  mingled  with 
contempt:  *' Ah,  villain!  against  the  monatti!  against  the  offi- 
cers of  the  Board!  against  those  who  perform  works  of 
mercy!  " 

*'  Hold  him  fast  till  we  carry  him  off,"  said  his  compan- 
ion, going  toward  the  trunk.  Griso  then  entered,  and  began 
with  him  to  force  open  the  lock. 

''  Scoundrel!  "  howled  Don  Rodrigo,  looking  at  him  from 
under  the  fellow  who  held  him  down,  and  writhing  himself 
under  the  grasp  of  his  sinewy  arms.  "  First  let  me  kill  that 
infamous  rascal!"  said  he  to  the  monatti,  "and  afterward  do 
with  me  what  you  will."  Then  he  began  to  shout  with  loud 
cries  to  his  other  servants:  but  in  vain  he  called;  for  the 
abominable  Griso  had  sent  them  all  ofif  with  pretended  orders 
from  their  master  himself,  before  going  to  propose  to  the 
monatti  to  come  on  this  expedition,  and  divide  the  spoil. 

*'  Be  quiet,  will  you?  "  said  the  villain  who  held  him  down 
upon  the  bed,  to  the  unfortunate  Don  Rodrigo.  And  turning 
his  face  to  the  two  who  were  seizing  the  booty,  he  cried  to 
them,  "  Do  your  work  like  honest  fellows." 

"  You!  you!  "  roared  Don  Rodrigo  to  Griso,  whom  he  be- 
held busying  himself  in  breaking  open,  taking  out  money  and 
clothes,  and  dividing  them.  "You!  after!  ....  Ah,  fiend 
of  hell!  I  may  still  recover!  I  may  still  recover!"  Griso 
spoke  not,  nor,  more  than  he  could  help,  even  turned  in  the 
direction  whence  these  words  proceeded. 

"Hold  him  fast,"  said  the  other  monatto;  "he's  frantic." 

The  miserable  being  became  so  indeed.     After  one  last 


THE   BETROTHED 


489 


and  more  violent  effort  of  cries  and  contortions,  he  suddenly 
sank  down  senseless  in  a  swoon;  he  still,  however,  stared  fix- 
edly, as  if  spell-bound;  and  from  time  to  time  gave  a  feeble 
strug-gle,  or  uttered  a  kind  of  howl. 

The  monatti  took  him,  one  by  the  feet  and  the  other  by 
the  shoulders,  and  went  to  deposit  him  on  a  hand-barrow 
which  they  had  left  in  the  adjoining  room;  afterward  one  re- 
turned to  fetch  the  booty;  and  then,  taking  up  their  miserable 
burden,  they  carried  all  away. 

Griso  remained  behind  to  select  in  haste  whatever  more 
might  be  of  use  to  him;  and  making  them  up  into  a  bundle, 
took  his  departure.  He  had  carefully  avoided  touching  the 
monatti,  or  being  touched  by  them;  but  in  the  last  hurry  of 
plunder,  he  had  taken  from  the  bedside  his  master's  clothes 
and  shaken  them,  without  thinking  of  anything  but  of  seeing 
whether  there  were  money  in  them.  He  was  forced  to  think 
of  it,  however,  the  next  day;  for,  while  making  merry  in  a 
public-house,  he  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  cold  shiver,  his 
eyes  became  clouded,  his  strength  failed  him,  and  he  sank  to 
the  ground.  Abandoned  by  his  companions,  he  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  monatti,  who,  despoiling  him  of  whatever  he  had 
about  him  worth  having,  threw  him  upon  a  car,  on  which  he 
expired  before  reaching  the  Lazzeretto,  whither  his  master 
had  been  carried. 

Leaving  the  latter,  for  the  present,  in  this  abode  of  suffer- 
ing, we  must  now  go  in  search  of  another,  whose  history 
would  never  have  been  blended  with  his,  if  it  had  not  been 
forced  upon  him  whether  he  would  or  not;  indeed  we  may 
safely  say,  that  neither  one  nor  the  other  would  have  had  any 
history  at  all: — I  mean  Renzo,  whom  we  left  in  the  new  silk- 
mill  under  the  assumed  name  of  Antonio  Rivolta. 

He  had  been  there  about  five  or  six  months,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  when,  enmity  having  been  openly  declared  between 
the  Republic  and  the  King  of  Spain,  and  therefore  every  ap- 
prehension of  ill-offices  and  trouble  from  that  quarter  having 
ceased,  Bortolo  eagerly  went  to  fetch  him  away,  and  take  him 
again  into  his  own  employment,  both  because  he  was  fond 
of  him,  and  because  Renzo,  being  naturally  intelligent,  and 
skilful  in  the  trade,  was  of  great  use  to  the  factotum  in  a  man- 
ufactory, without  ever  being  able  to  aspire  at  that  office  him- 
self, from  his  inability  to  write.  As  this  reason  weighed  with 
him  in  some  measure,  we  were  obliged,  therefore,  to  mention 
it.  Perhaps  the  reader  would  rather  have  had  a  more  ideal 
Bortolo:  but  what  can  I  say?  he  must  imagine  one  for  him- 
self.    We  describe  him  as  he  was. 


490 


MANZONI 


From  that  time  Renzo  continued  to  work  with  him.  More 
than  once  or  twice,  and  especially  after  having  received  one 
of  those  charming  letters  from  Agnese,  he  had  felt  a  great 
fancy  to  enlist  as  a  soldier,  and  make  an  end  of  it:  nor  were 
opportunities  wanting;  for  just  during  that  interval,  the  Re- 
public often  stood  in  need  of  men.  The  temptation  had  some- 
times been  the  more  pressing  to  Renzo,  because  they  even 
talked  of  invading  the  Milanese;  and  it  naturally  appeared  to 
him  that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  return  in  the  guise  of  a 
conqueror  to  his  own  home,  to  see  Lucia  again,  and  for  once 
come  to  an  explanation  with  her.  But,  by  clever  manage- 
ment, Bortolo  had  always  contrived  to  divert  him  from  the 
resolution.  ''  If  they  have  to  go  there,"  he  would  say,  "  they 
can  go  well  enough  without  you,  and  you  can  go  there  after- 
ward at  your  convenience;  if  they  come  back  with  a  broken 
head,  won't  it  be  better  to  have  been  out  of  the  fray?  There 
won't  be  wanting  desperate  fellows  on  the  highway  for  rob- 
beries. And  before  they  set  foot  there!  ....  As  for  me,  I 
am  somewhat  incredulous;  these  fellows  bark;  but  let  them; 
the  Milanese  is  not  a  mouthful  to  be  so  easily  swallowed. 
Spain  is  concerned  in  it,  my  dear  fellow:  do  you  know  what 
it  is  to  deal  with  Spain?  St.  Mark  is  strong  enough  at  home: 
but  it  will  take  something  more  than  that.  Have  patience; 
ar'n't  you  well  off  here?  ....  I  know  what  you  would  say 
to  me;  but  if  it  be  decreed  above  that  the  thing  succeed,  rest 
assured  it  will  succeed  better  by  your  playing  no  fooleries. 
Some  saint  will  help  you.  Believe  me,  it's  no  business  of 
yours.  Do  you  think  it  would  suit  you  to  leave  winding  silk 
to  go  and  murder?  What  would  you  do  among  such  a  set 
of  people?     It  requires  men  who  are  made  for  it." 

At  other  times  Renzo  resolved  to  go  secretly,  disguised 
and  under  a  false  name.  But  from  this  project,  too,  Bortolo 
always  contrived  to  divert  him  with  arguments  that  may  be 
too  easily  conjectured. 

The  plague  having  afterward  broken  out  in  the  Milanese 
territory,  and  even,  as  we  have  said,  on  the  confines  of  the 
Bergamascan,  it  was  not  long  before  it  extended  itself  hither, 
and  ....  be  not  dismayed,  for  I  am  not  going  to  give  an- 
other history  of  this:  if  any  one  wishes  it,  it  may  be  found 
in  a  work  by  one  Lorenzo  Ghirardelli,  written  by  public  or- 
der; a  scarce  and  almost  unknown  work,  however,  although 
it  contains,  perhaps,  more  fully  than  all  the  rest  put  together, 
the  most  celebrated  descriptions  of  pestilences:  on  so  many 
things  does  the  celebrity  of  books  depend!  What  I  would 
say  is,  that  Renzo  also  took  the  plague,  and  cured  himself, 


THE    BETROTHED 


491 


that  is  to  say,  he  did  nothing;  he  was  at  the  point  of  death, 
but  his  good  constitution  conquered  the  strength  of  the  mal- 
ady: in  a  few  days  he  was  out  of  danger.  With  the  return  of 
Hfe,  its  cares,  its  wishes,  hopes,  recollections,  and  designs,  were 
renewed  with  double  poignancy  and  vigour;  which  is  equiva- 
lent to  saying  that  he  thought  more  than  ever  of  Lucia.  What 
had  become  of  her,  during  the  time  that  life  was,  as  it  were, 
an  exception?  And  at  so  short  a  distance  from  her,  could 
he  learn  nothing?  And  to  remain,  God  knew  how  long!  in 
such  a  state  of  uncertainty!  And  even  when  this  should  be 
removed,  when,  all  danger  being  over,  he  should  learn  that 
Lucia  still  survived;  there  would  always  remain  that  other 
knot,  that  obscurity  about  the  vow. — ''  111  go  myself;  Lll  go 
and  learn  about  everything  at  once,"  said  he  to  himself,  and 
he  said  it  before  he  was  again  in  a  condition  to  steady  himself 
upon  his  feet.  "  Provided  she  lives!  Ah,  if  she  lives!  Lll  find 
her,  that  I  will;  I'll  hear  once  from  her  own  lips  what  this 
promise  is,  I'll  make  her  see  that  it  can  not  hold  good,  and  I'll 
bring  her  away  with  me,  her,  and  that  poor  Agnese,  if  she's 
living!  who  has  always  wished  me  w^ell,  and  I'm  sure  she  does 
so  still.  The  capture!  aha!  the  survivors  have  something 
else  to  think  about  now.  People  go  about  safely,  even  here, 
who  have  on  them  ....  \M11  there  have  been  a  safe-conduct 
only  for  bailiffs?  And  at  Milan,  everybody  says  that  there 
are  other  disturbances  there.  If  I  let  so  good  an  opportunity 
pass — (the  plague!  Only  see  how  that  revered  instinct  of  re- 
ferring and  making  subservient  everything  to  ourselves,  may 
sometimes  lead  us  to  apply  words!) — I  may  never  have  such 
another!  " 

It  is  well  to  hope,  my  good  Renzo.  Scarcely  could  he 
drag  himself  about,  when  he  set  off  in  search  of  Bortolo,  who 
had  so  far  succeeded  in  escaping  the  pestilence,  and  was  still 
kept  in  reserve.  He  did  not  go  into  the  house,  but,  calling 
to  him  from  the  street,  made  him  come  to  the  window. 

"Aha!"  said  Bortolo;  "you've  escaped  it,  then!  It's 
well  for  you!  " 

"  I'm  still  rather  weak  in  my  limbs,  you  see,  but  as  to  the 
danger,  it's  all  over." 

"  Ay,  I'd  gladly  be  in  your  shoes.  It  used  to  be  every- 
thing to  say,  *  I'm  well; '  but  now  it  counts  for  very  little.  He 
who  is  able  to  say,  'I'm  better,'  can  indeed  say  something!" 

Renzo  expressed  some  good  wishes  for  his  cousin,  and 
imparted  to  him  his  resolution. 

"Go,  this  time,  and  Heaven  prosper  you!"  replied  he. 
"Try  to  avoid  justice,  as  I  shall  try  to  avoid  the  contagion; 


492  MANZONI 

and,  if  it  be  God's  will  that  things  should  go  well  with  us 
both,  we  shall  meet  again." 

'*  Oh,  I  shall  certainly  come  back:  God  grant  I  may  not 
come  alone !     Well :  we  will  hope." 

''Come  back  in  company;  for,  if  God  wills,  we  will  all 
work  together,  and  make  up  a  good  party.  ^  I  only  hope  you 
may  find  me  alive,  and  that  this  odious  epidemic  may  have 
come  to  an  end!  " 

"  We  shall  see  each  other  again,  we  shall  see  each  other 
again ;  w^e  must  see  each  other  again !  " 

''  I  repeat,  God  grant  it!  " 

For  several  days  Renzo  practised  taking  a  little  exercise, 
to  assay  and  recruit  his  strength;  and  no  sooner  did  he  deem 
himself  capable  of  performing  the  journey,  than  he  prepared 
to  set  out.  Under  his  clothes  he  buckled  a  girdle  round  his 
waist,  containing  those  fifty  scudi  upon  which  he  had  never 
laid  a  finger,  and  which  he  had  never  confided  to  any  one, 
not  even  to  Bortolo;  he  took  a  few  more  pence  with  him, 
which  he  had  saved  day  after  day  by  living  very  economic- 
ally; put  under  his  arm  a  small  bundle  of  clothes,  and  in  his 
pocket  a  character,  with  the  name  of  Antonio  Rivolta,  which 
had  been  very  willingly  given  him  by  his  second  master;  in 
one  pocket  of  his  trousers  he  placed  a  large  knife,  the  least 
that  an  honest  man  could  carry  in  those  days;  and  set  of¥  on 
his  peregrinations,  on  the  last  day  of  August,  three  days  after 
Don  Rodrigo  had  been  carried  to  the  Lazzeretto.  He  took 
the  way  toward  Lecco,  wishing,  before  venturing  himself  into 
Milan,  to  pass  through  his  village,  where  he  hoped  to  find 
Agnese  alive,  and  to  begin  by  learning  from  her  some  of  the 
many  things  he  so  ardently  longed  to  know. 

The  few  who  had  recovered  from  the  pestilence  were, 
among  the  rest  of  the  population,  indeed  like  a  privileged  class. 
A  great  proportion  of  the  others  languished  or  died;  and 
those  who  had  been  hitherto  untouched  by  the  contagion 
lived  in  constant  apprehension  of  it.  They  walked  cautiously 
and  warily  about,  with  measured  steps,  gloomy  looks,  and 
haste  at  once  and  hesitation:  for  everything  might  be  a 
weapon  against  them  to  inflict  a  mortal  wound.  These,  on 
the  contrary,  almost  certain  of  safety  (for  to  have  the  plague 
twice  was  rather  a  prodigious  than  a  rare  instance),  went 
about  in  the  midst  of  the  contagion,  freely  and  boldly,  like 
the  knights  during  one  part  of  the  middle  ages;  who,  encased 
in  steel,  wherever  steel  might  be,  and  mounted  on  chargers, 
themselves  defended  as  impenetrably  as  possible,  went  ram- 
bling about  at  hazard  (whence  their  glorious  denomination  of 


THE   BETROTHED 


493 


knights-errant),  among  a  poor  pedestrian  herd  of  burghers 
and  villagers,  who,  to  repel  and  ward  off  their  blows,  had 
nothing  on  them  but  rags.  Beautiful,  sapient,  and  useful  pro- 
fession! a  profession  fit  to  make  the  first  figure  in  a  treatise 
on  political  economy! 

With  such  security,  tempered,  however,  by  the  anxiety 
with  which  our  readers  are  acquainted,  and  by  the  frequent 
spectacle  and  perpetual  contemplation  of  the  universal  calam- 
ity, Renzo  pursued  his  homeward  way,  under  a  beautiful  sky 
and  through  a  beautiful  country,  but  meeting  nothing,  after 
passing  wide  tracts  of  most  mournful  solitude,  but  some  wan- 
dering shadow  rather  than  a  living  being,  or  corpses  carried 
to  the  grave,  unhonoured  by  funeral  rites,  unaccompanied  by 
the  funeral  dirge.  About  noon  he  stopped  in  a  little  wood,  to 
eat  a  mouthful  of  bread  and  meat  which  he  had  brought  with 
him.  Of  fruit,  he  had  only  too  much  at  his  command  the 
whole  length  of  the  way — figs,  peaches,  plums,  and  apples  at 
will;  he  had  only  to  enter  a  vineyard,  extend  his  arm  to 
gather  them  from  the  branches,  or  to  pick  them  up  from  the 
ground,  which  was  thickly  strewn  with  them;  for  the  year 
was  extraordinarily  abundant  in  fruit  of  every  kind,  and  there 
was  scarcely  any  one  to  take  any  care  of  it.  The  grapes  even 
hid  themselves  beneath  the  leaves,  and  were  left  for  the  use  of 
the  first  comer. 

Toward  evening  he  discovered  his  own  village.  At  this 
sight,  though  he  must  have  been  prepared  for  it,  he  felt  his 
heart  begin  to  beat  violently;  he  was  at  once  assailed  by  a 
host  of  mournful  recollections  and  presentiments:  he  seemed 
to  hear  ringing  in  his  ears  those  inauspicious  tolls  of  the  bell 
which  had,  as  it  were,  accompanied  and  followed  him  in  his 
flight  from  the  village;  and,  at  the  same  time,  he  heard,  so 
to  say,  the  deathlike  silence  which  actually  reigned  around. 
He  experienced  still  stronger  agitation  on  entering  the 
churchyard;  and  worse  still  awaited  him  at  the  end  of  his 
walk;  for  the  spot  he  had  fixed  upon  as  his  resting-place,  was 
the  dwelling  which  he  had  once  been  accustomed  to  call 
Lucia's  cottage.  Now  it  could  not  be,  at  the  best,  more  than 
Agnese's;  and  the  only  favour  he  begged  of  Heaven  was,  that 
he  might  find  her  living  and  in  health.  And  in  this  cottage 
he  proposed  asking  for  a  bed,  rightly  conjecturing  that  his 
own  would  no  longer  be  a  place  of  abode  for  anything  but  rats 
and  polecats. 

To  reach  that  point,  therefore,  without  passing  through 
the  village,  he  took  a  little  by-path  that  ran  behind  it,  the  very 
one  along  which  he  had  gone,  in  good  company,  on  that 


494  MANZONI 

notorious  night  when  he  tried  to  surprise  the  curate.  About 
half  way  stood,  on  one  side,  his  own  house,  and  on  the  other 
his  vineyard;  so  that  he  could  enter  both  for  a  moment  in 
passing,  to  see  a  little  how  his  own  afifairs  were  going  on. 

He  looked  forward,  as  he  pursued  his  way,  anxious,  and 
at  the  same  time  afraid,  to  meet  with  any  one;  and  after  a 
few  paces,  he  saw  a  man  seated  in  his  shirt  on  the  ground, 
resting  his  back  against  a  hedge  of  jessamine,  in  the  attitude 
of  an  idiot;  and  from  this,  and  afterward  from  his  counte- 
nance, he  thought  it  was  that  poor  simpleton  Gervase,  who 
had  gone  as  the  second  witness  in  his  ill-fated  expedition. 
But  going  a  little  nearer,  he  perceived  that  it  was,  instead, 
the  sprightly  Tonio,  who  had  brought  his  brother  with  him 
on  that  occasion.  The  contagion,  robbing  him  at  once  of 
mental  as  well  as  bodily  vigour,  had  developed  in  his  look  and 
every  action  the  slight  and  veiled  germ  of  likeness  which  he 
bore  to  his  half-witted  brother. 

"Oh  Tonio!"  said  Renzo,  stopping  before  him,  "is  it 
you?"  ^        ^ 

Tonio  raised  his  eyes,  w^ithout  moving  his  head. 

"  Tonio,  don't  you  know  me?  " 

"  Whoever  has  got  it,  has  got  it,"  answered  Tonio,  gazing 
at  him  with  open  mouth. 

"  It's  on  you,  eh?  poor  Tonio:  but  don't  you  know  me 
again?  " 

"  Whoever  has  got  it,  has  got  it,"  replied  he,  with  a  kind 
of  idiotic  smile.  Seeing  he  could  draw  nothing  further  from 
him,  Renzo  pursued  his  way,  still  more  disconsolate.  Sud- 
denly he  saw,  turning  the  corner,  and  advancing  toward  him, 
a  black  object,  which  he  quickly  recognized  as  Don  Abbondio. 
He  walked  slowly,  carrying  his  stick  like  one  who  is  alternate- 
ly carried  by  it;  and  the  nearer  he  approached,  the  more 
plainly  might  be  discerned,  in  his  pale  and  emaciated  coun- 
tenance, and  in  every  look,  that  he,  too,  had  had  to  pass 
through  his  share  of  the  storm.  He  looked  askance  at  Ren- 
zo; it  seemed,  and  it  did  not  seem,  like  him;  there  was  some- 
thing like  a  stranger  in  his  dress;  but  it  was  a  stranger  from 
the  territory  of  Bergamo. 

It  is  he,  and  nobody  else! — said  he  to  himself,  raising  his 
hands  to  Heaven,  with  a  motion  of  dissatisfied  surprise,  and 
the  stafT  he  carried  in  his  right  hand  suddenly  checked  in  its 
passage  through  the  air;  and  his  poor  arms  might  be  seen 
shaking  in  his  sleeves,  where  once  there  was  scarcely  room 
for  them.  Renzo  hastened  to  meet  him,  and  made  a  low 
reverence;  for,  although  they  had  quitted  each  other  in  the 


THE   BETROTHED 


495 


way  the  reader  knows,  he  was  always,  nevertheless,  his 
curate. 

"Are  you  here — you?"  exclaimed  the  latter. 

"  I  am  indeed,  as  you  see.  Do  you  know  anything  of 
Lucia?" 

"  What  do  you  suppose  I  can  know?  I  know  nothing. 
She's  at  Milan,  if  she's  still  in  this  world.     But  you  .  .  .  ." 

"And  Agnese,  is  she  alive?" 

"She  may  be;  but  who  do  you  suppose  can  tell?  She's 
not  here.     But  .  .  .  ." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  She's  gone  to  live  at  Valsassina,  among  her  relations  at 
Pasturo,  you  know;  for  they  say  the  plague  doesn't  make  the 
havoc  there  it  does  here.     But  you,  I  say  .  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  sorry.     And  Father  Cristoforo?  .  .  .  ." 

"  He's  been  gone  for  some  time.     But  .  .  .  ." 

"I  know  that,  they  wrote  and  told  me  so  much;  but  I 
want  to  know  if  he  hasn't  yet  returned  to  these  parts." 

"  Nay;  they've  heard  nothing  further  about  him.  But 
you  .  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  this  too." 

"  But  you,  I  say,  what,  for  Heaven's  sake,  are  you  coming 
to  do  in  this  part  of  the  world?  Don't  you  know  about  that 
affair  of  your  apprehension?" 

"  What  does  it  matter?  They've  something  else  to  think 
about.  I  was  determined  to  come  for  once,  and  see  about  my 
affairs.     And  isn't  it  well  enough  known?  .  .  .  ." 

"  What  would  you  see  about,  I  wonder?  for  now  there's 
no  longer  anybody,  or  anything.  And  is  it  wise  of  you,  with 
that  business  of  your  apprehension,  to  come  hither  exactly  to 
your  own  village,  into  the  wolf's  very  mouthy  Do  as  an  old 
man  advises  you,  who  is  obliged  to  have  more  judgment  than 
you,  and  who  speaks  from  the  love  he  bears  you;  buckle  on 
your  shoes  well,  and  set  off,  before  any  one  sees  you,  to  where 
you  came  from;  and  if  you've  been  seen  already,  return  only 
the  more  quickly.  Do  you  think  that  this  is  the  air  for  you? 
Don't  you  know  they've  been  to  look  for  you?  that  they've 
ransacked  everything,  and  turned  all  upside  down?  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  it  too  well,  the  scoundrels!  " 

"  But  then  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  if  I  tell  you  I  don't  care !  And  is  that  fellow  alive 
yet?  is  he  here?  " 

"I  tell  you  nobody's  here;  I  tell  you,  you  mustn't  think 
about  things  here;  I  tell  you  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  ask  H  he's  here?" 


496  MANZONI 

"  Oh,  sacred  Heaven !  Speak  more  quietly.  Is  it  possible 
you've  all  that  fieriness  about  you  after  so  many  things  have 
happened? " 

'*  Is  he  here,  or  is  he  not?" 

"  Well,  well,  he's  not  here.  But  the  plague,  my  son,  the 
plague!  Who  would  go  travelling  about  in  such  times  as 
these?" 

"  If  there  was  nothing  else  but  the  plague  in  this  world 
.  .  .  .  I  mean  for  myself:  I've  had  it,  and  am  free." 

"  Indeed,  indeed!  what  news  is  this?  When  one  has  es- 
caped a  danger  of  this  sort,  it  seems  to  me  he  should  thank 
Heaven,  and  .  .  .  ." 

''  And  so  I  do." 

"  And  not  go  to  look  for  others,  I  say.     Do  as  I  advise." 

"  You've  had  it  too,  Signor  Curate,  if  I  mistake  not." 

"  I  had  it!  Obstinate  and  bad  enough  it  was!  I'm  here 
by  miracle ;  I  need  only  say  that  it  has  left  me  in  the  state  you 
see.  Now,  I  had  just  need  of  a  little  quiet,  to  set  me  to  rights 
again.  I  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  better  ....  In  the 
name  of  Heaven,  what  have  you  come  to  do  here?  Go 
back  .  .  .  ." 

**  You're  always  at  me  with  that  go  back.  As  for  going 
back,  I  have  reasons  enough  for  not  stirring.  You  say,  what 
are  you  come  for?  what  are  you  come  for?     I've  come  home." 

"  Home  .  .  .  ." 

"  Tell  me,  are  many  dead  here?  .  .  ,  ." 

"Alas,  alas!"  exclaimed  Don  Abbondio;  and  beginning 
with  Perpetua,  he  entered  upon  a  long  enumeration  of  indi- 
viduals and  entire  families.  Renzo  had  certainly  expected 
something  of  the  kind,  but,  on  hearing  so  many  names  of  ac- 
quaintances, friends,  and  relatives  (he  had  lost  his  parents 
many  years  before),  he  stood  overcome  with  grief,  his  head 
hung  down,  and  only  exclaiming  from  time  to  time,  "  Poor 
fellow!  poor  girl!  poor  creatures!" 

"You  see,"  continued  Don  Abbondio;  "and  it  isn't  yet 
over.  If  those  who  are  left  don't  use  their  senses  this  time, 
and  drive  the  whims  out  of  their  brains,  there's  nothing  for  it 
but  the  end  of  the  world." 

"  Don't  be  afraid;  I've  no  intentions  of  stopping  here." 

"Ah!  thank  Heaven,  you  at  last  understand!  And  you'd 
better  make  up  your  mind  to  return  .  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  you  trouble  yourself  about  that." 

"  What!  didn't  you  once  want  to  do  something  more  fool- 
ish than  this  even?" 

"Never  mind  me,  I  say;    that  is  my  business;    I'm  more 


THE   BETROTHED 


497 


than  seven  years  old.  I  hope,  at  any  rate,  you  won't  tell  any- 
body you've  seen  me.  You  are  a  priest;  I  am  one  of  your 
flock;  you  won't  betray  me?" 

"  I  understand,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  sighing  pettishly, 
"  I  understand.  You  would  ruin  yourself  and  me  too.  You 
haven't  gone  through  enough  already,  I  suppose;  and  I 
haven't  gone  through  enough  either.  I  understand,  I  under- 
stand." And  continuing  to  mutter  these  last  words  between 
his  teeth,  he  again  resumed  his  way. 

Renzo  stood  there,  chagrined  and  discontented,  thinking 
where  he  could  find  a  lodging.  In  the  funereal  list  recounted 
by  Don  Abbondio,  there  was  a  family  of  peasants,  who  had 
been  all  swept  off  by  the  pestilence,  excepting  one  youth, 
about  Renzo's  own  age,  who  had  been  his  companion  from 
infancy ;  the  house  was  out  of  the  village,  a  very  little  way  off. 
Hither  he  determined  to  bend  his  steps  and  ask  for  a  night's 
lodging. 

He  had  nearly  reached  his  own  vineyard,  and  was  soon 
able  to  infer  from  the  outside  in  what  state  it  was.  Not  a 
single  tree,  not  a  single  leaf,  which  he  had  left  there  was  visible 
above  the  wall.  If  anything  blossomed  there,  it  was  all  what 
had  grown  during  his  absence.  He  went  up  to  the  opening 
(of  a  gate  there  w^as  no  longer  the  least  sign);  he  cast  a 
glance  around:  poor  vineyard!  For  two  successive  winters 
the  people  of  the  neighbourhood  had  gone  to  chop  firewood 
"  in  the  garden  of  that  poor  fellow,"  as  they  used  to  say. 
Vines,  mulberry-trees,  fruits  of  every  kind,  all  had  been  rude- 
ly torn  up,  or  cut  down  to  the  trunk.  Vestiges,  however,  of 
former  cultivation  still  appeared;  young  shoots,  in  broken 
lines,  which  retained,  nevertheless,  traces  of  their  now  deso- 
lated rows;  here  and  there  stumps  and  sprouts  of  mulberry, 
fig,  peach,  cherry,  and  plum-trees;  but  even  these  seemed 
overwhelmed  and  choked  by  a  fresh,  varied,  and  luxuriant 
progeny,  born  and  reared  without  the  help  of  man.  There 
was  a  thick  mass  of  nettles,  ferns,  tares,  dog-grass,  rye-grass, 
wild  oats,  green  amaranths,  succory,  wild  sorrel,  fox-glove, 
and  other  similar  plants;  all  those,  I  mean,  which  the  peasant 
of  every  country  has  included  in  one  large  class  at  his  pleas- 
ure, denominating  them  weeds.  There  was  a  medley  of  stalks, 
each  trying  to  out-top  the  others  in  the  air,  or  rivalling  its 
fellow  in  length  upon  the  ground — aiming,  in  short,  to  secure 
for  itself  the  post  of  honour  in  every  direction;  a  mixture  of 
leaves,  flowers,  and  fruit,  of  a  hundred  colours, forms,  and  sizes; 
ears  of  corn,  Indian  corn,  tufts,  bunches,  and  heads  of  white, 
yellow,  red,  and  blue.  In  the  midst  of  this  medley,  other 
32 


498 


MANZONI 


taller  and  more  graceful,  though  not,  for  the  most  part,  more 
valuable  plants,  were  prominently  conspicuous;  the  Turkish 
vine  soared  above  all  the  rest,  with  its  long  and  reddish 
branches,  its  large  and  magnificent  dark-green  leaves,  some 
already  fringed  with  purple  at  the  top,  and  its  bending  clus- 
ters of  grapes;  adorned  below  with  berries  of  a  bluish-grey 
tinge,  higher  up  of  a  purple  hue,  then  green,  and  at  the  very 
top  with  whitish  little  flowers.  There  was  also  the  bearded 
yew,  with  its  large  rough  leaves  down  to  the  ground,  the  stem 
rising  perpendicularly  to  the  sky,  and  the  long  pendent 
branches  scattered,  and,  as  it  were,  bespangled  with  bright 
yellow  blossoms;  thistles,  too,  with  rough  and  prickly  leaves 
and  calyxes,  from  which  issued  little  tufts  of  white  or  purple 
flowers,  or  else  light  and  silvery  plumes,  which  were  quickly 
swept  away  by  the  breeze.  Here  a  little  bunch  of  bindweed, 
climbing  up  and  twining  around  fresh  suckers  from  a  mul- 
berry-tree, had  entirely  covered  them  with  its  pendent  leaves, 
which  pointed  to  the  ground,  and  adorned  them  at  the  top 
with  its  white  and  delicate  little  bells.  There  a  red-berried  bry- 
ony had  twisted  itself  among  the  new  shoots  of  a  vine,  which, 
seeking  in  vain  a  firmer  support,  had  reciprocally  entwined 
its  tendrils  around  its  companion,  and,  mingling  their  feeble 
stalks,  and  their  not  very  dissimilar  leaves,  they  mutually 
drew  each  other  upward,  as  often  happens  with  the  weak, 
who  take  one  another  for  their  stay.  The  bramble  intruded 
everywhere;  it  stretched  from  one  bough  to  another;  now 
mounting,  and  again  turning  downward,  it  bent  the  branches, 
or  straightened  them,  according  as  it  happened;  and  crossing 
before  the  very  threshold,  seemed  as  if  it  were  placed  there 
to  dispute  the  passage  even  of  the  owner. 

But  he  had  no  heart  to  enter  such  a  vineyard,  and  prob- 
ably did  not  stand  as  long  looking  at  it  as  we  have  taken  to 
make  this  little  sketch.  He  went  forward;  a  little  way  off 
stood  his  cottage;  he  passed  through  the  garden,  trampling 
under-foot  by  hundreds  the  intrusive  visitors  with  which,  like 
the  vineyard,  it  was  peopled  and  overgrown.  He  just  set 
foot  within  the  threshold  of  one  of  the  rooms  on  the  ground 
floor;  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  and  on  his  looking  in, 
there  was  a  hubbub,  a  scampering  to  and  fro  of  rats,  a  rush 
under  the  rubbish  that  covered  the  whole  floor;  it  was  the 
relics  of  the  German  soldiers'  beds.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and 
looked  round  upon  the  walls;  they  were  stripped  of  plaster, 
filthy,  blackened  with  smoke.  He  raised  them  to  the  ceiling 
— a  mass  of  cobwebs.  Nothing  else  was  to  be  seen.  He 
took  his  departure,  too,  from  this  desolate  scene,  twining  his 


THE   BETROTHED 


499 


fingers  in  his  hair;  returned  through  the  garden,  retracing 
the  path  he  had  himself  made  a  moment  before,  took  another 
Httle  lane  to  the  left,  which  led  into  the  fields,  and,  without 
seeing  or  hearing  a  living  creature,  arrived  close  to  the  house 
he  had  designed  as  his  place  of  lodging.  It  was  already  even- 
ing; his  friend  was  seated  outside  the  door  on  a  small  wooden 
bench,  his  arms  crossed  on  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  sky,  like  a  man  bewildered  by  misfortunes,  and  rendered 
savage  by  long  solitude.  Hearing  a  footstep,  he  turned 
round,  looked  who  was  coming,  and  to  what  he  fancied  he 
saw  in  the  twilight,  between  the  leaves  and  branches,  cried  in 
a  loud  voice,  as  he  stood  up  and  raised  both  his  hands:  "  Is 
there  nobody  but  me?  didn't  I  do  enough  yesterday?  Let 
me  alone  a  little,  for  that,  too,  will  be  a  work  of  charity." 

Renzo,  not  knowing  what  this  meant,  replied  to  him,  call- 
ing him  by  name. 

"  Renzo  .  .  .  ."  said  he,  in  a  tone  at  once  of  exclamation 
and  interrogation. 

"  Myself,"  said  Renzo;  and  they  hastened  to  meet  each 
other. 

*'  Is  it  really  you?"  said  his  friend,  when  they  were  near. 
"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you !  Who  would  have  thought 
it?  I  took  you  for  Paolin  de'  Morti,  who  is  always  coming 
to  torment  me  to  go  and  bury  some  one.  Do  you  know  I 
am  left  alone? — alone!  alone!  as  a  hermit!" 

"  I  know  it  too  well,"  said  Renzo.  And  interchanging  in 
this  manner,  and  crowding  upon  one  another,  welcomings, 
and  questions,  and  answers,  they  went  into  the  house  to- 
gether. Here,  without  interrupting  the  conversation,  his 
friend  busied  himself  in  doing  some  little  honour  to  his  guest, 
as  he  best  could  on  so  sudden  a  warning,  and  in  times  like 
those.  He  set  some  water  on  the  fire,  and  began  to  make  the 
polenta;  but  soon  gave  up  the  pestle  to  Renzo,  that  he  might 
proceed  with  the  mixing,  and  went  out,  saying,  "  Fm  all  by 
myself,  you  see,  all  by  myself!  " 

By  and  by  he  returned  with  a  small  pail  of  milk,  a  little 
salt  meat,  a  couple  of  cream-cheeses,  and  some  figs  and 
peaches;  and  all  being  ready,  and  the  polenta  poured  out 
upon  the  trencher,  they  sat  down  to  table,  mutually  thanking 
each  other,  one  for  the  visit,  the  other  for  the  reception  he 
met  with.  And,  after  an  absence  of  nearly  two  years,  ^they 
suddenly  discovered  that  they  were  much  greater  friends 
than  they  ever  thought  they  were  when  they  saw  each  other 
almost  every  day;  for,  as  the  manuscript  here  remarks,  events 
had  occurred  to  both  which  make  one  feel  what  a  cordial  to 


5CO  MANZONI 

the  heart  is  kindly  feeling,  both  that  which  one  experiences 
oneself,  and  that  which  one  meets  with  in  others. 

True,  no  one  could  supply  the  place  of  Agnese  to  Renzo, 
nor  console  him  for  her  absence,  not  only  on  account  of  the 
old  and  special  affection  he  entertained  for  her,  but  also  be- 
cause, among  the  things  he  was  anxious  to  clear  up,  one  there 
was  of  which  she  alone  possessed  the  key.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  in  doubt  whether  he  should  not  first  go  in  search  of 
her,  since  he  was  so  short  a  distance  off;  but,  considering 
that  she  would  know  nothing  of  Lucia's  health,  he  kept  to 
his  first  intention  of  going  at  once  to  assure  himself  of  this, 
to  confront  the  one  great  trial,  and  afterward  to  bring  the 
news  to  her  mother.  Even  from  his  friend,  however,  he  learnt 
many  things  of  which  he  was  ignorant,  and  gained  some  light 
on  many  points  with  Avhich  he  was  but  partially  acquainted, 
both  about  Lucia's  circumstances,  the  prosecutions  instituted 
against  himself,  and  Don  Rodrigo's  departure  thence,  fol- 
lowed by  his  whole  suite,  since  which  time  he  had  not  been 
seen  in  the  neighbourhood;  in  short,  about  all  the  intricate 
circumstances  of  the  whole  affair.  He  learnt  also  (and  it 
was  to  him  an  acquisition  of  no  little  importance)  to  pro- 
nounce properly  the  name  of  Don  Ferrante's  family;  Agnese, 
indeed,  had  written  it  to  him  by  her  secretary;  but  Heaven 
knows  how  it  was  written,  and  the  Bergamascan  interpreter 
had  read  it  in  such  a  way — had  given  him  such  a  word — that, 
had  he  gone  with  it  to  seek  direction  to  his  house  in  Milan, 
he  would  probably  have  found  no  one  who  could  have  con- 
jectured for  whom  he  was  making  inquiry.  Yet  this  was  the 
only  clue  he  possessed  that  could  put  him  in  the  way  of  learn- 
ing tidings  of  Lucia.  As  to  justice,  he  was  ever  more  and 
more  convinced  that  this  was  a  hazard  remote  enough  not  to 
give  him  much  concern:  the  Signor  Podesta  had  died  of  the 
plague;  who  knew  when  a  substitute  w^ould  be  appointed? 
the  greater  part  of  the  bailiffs  were  carried  off;  and  those  that 
remained  had  something  else  to  do  than  look  after  old  mat- 
ters. He  also  related  to  his  friend  the  vicissitudes  he  had 
undergone,  and  heard  in  exchange  a  hundred  stories  about 
the  passage  of  the  army,  the  plague,  the  poisoners,  and  other 
wonderful  matters.  "  They  are  miserable  things,"  said  his 
friend,  accompanying  Renzo  into  a  little  room  which  the  con- 
tagion had  emptied  of  occupants;  ''things  which  we  never 
could  have  thought  to  see,  and  after  which  we  can  never  ex- 
pect to  be  merry  again  all  our  lives;  but  nevertheless,  it  is 
a  relief  to  speak  of  them  to  one's  friends." 

By   break    of   day   they   w^ere    both    down-stairs;    Renzo 


THE   BETROTHED 


501 


equipped  for  his  journey,  with  his  girdle  hidden  under  his 
doublet,  and  the  large  knife  in  his  pocket,  but  otherwise  light 
and  unencumbered,  having  left  his  little  bundle  in  the  care  of 
his  host.  ''  If  all  goes  well  with  me,"  said  he;  "  if  I  find  her 
alive;  if  ...  .  enough  ....  I'll  come  back  here;  I'll  run 
over  to  Pasturo  to  carry  the  good  news  to  poor  Agnese,  and 
then,  and  then  ....  But  if,  by  ill-luck,  by  ill-luck  which  God 
forbid!  ....  then  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do;  I  don't 
know  where  I  shall  go:  only,  assuredly,  you  will  never  see 
me  again  in  these  parts !  "  And,  as  he  said  so,  standing  in 
the  doorway  which  led  into  the  fields,  he  cast  his  eyes  around, 
and  contemplated,  with  a  mixed  feeling  of  tenderness  and  bit- 
ter grief,  the  sunrising  of  his  own  country,  which  he  had  not 
seen  for  so  long  a  time.  His  friend  comforted  him  with 
bright  hopes  and  prognostications,  and  made  him  take  with 
him  some  little  store  of  provision  for  that  day;  then,  accom- 
panying him  a  mile  or  two  on  his  way,  he  took  his  leave  with 
renewed  good  wishes. 

Renzo  pursued  his  way  deliberately  and  easily,  as  all  he 
cared  for  was  to  reach  the  vicinity  of  Milan  that  day,  so  that 
he  might  enter  next  morning  early,  and  immediately  begin 
his  search.  The  journey  was  performed  without  accident; 
nor  was  there  anything  which  particularly  attracted  his  atten- 
tion, except  the  usual  spectacles  of  misery  and  sorrow.  He 
stopped  in  due  time,  as  he  had  done  the  day  before,  in  a  grove, 
to  refresh  himself  and  take  breath.  Passing  through  Monza, 
before  an  open  shop  where  bread  was  displayed  for  sale,  he 
asked  for  two  loaves,  that  he  might  not  be  totally  unprovided 
for  under  any  circumstances.  The  shopkeeper,  beckoning  to 
him  not  to  enter,  held  out  to  him,  on  a  little  shovel,  a  small 
basin  containing  vinegar  and  water,  into  which  he  desired 
him  to  drop  the  money  in  payment;  he  did  so;  and  then  the 
two  loaves  were  handed  out  to  him,  one  after  another,  with  a 
pair  of  tongs,  and  deposited  by  Renzo  one  in  each  pocket. 

Toward  evening  he  arrived  at  Greco,  without,  however, 
knowing  its  name;  but,  by  the  help  of  some  little  recollec- 
tion of  the  places  which  he  retained  from  his  former  journey, 
and  his  calculation  of  the  distance  he  had  already  come  from 
Monza,  he  guessed  that  he  must  be  tolerably  near  the  city, 
and  therefore  left  the  high-road  and  turned  into  the  fields  in 
search  of  some  cascinotto,  where  he  might  pass  the  night;  for 
with  inns  he  was  determined  not  to  meddle.  He  found  more 
than  he  looked  for:  for  seeing  a  gap  in  the  hedge  which  sur- 
rounded the  yard  of  a  cow-house,  he  resolved  at  any  rate  to 
enter.     No  one  was  there:  he  saw  in  one  corner  a  large  shed 


502  MANZONI 

with  hay  piled  up  beneath  it,  and  against  this  a  ladder  was 
reared;  he  once  more  looked  round,  and  then,  mounting  at 
a  venture,  laid  himself  down  to  pass  the  night  there,  and 
quickly  fell  asleep,  not  to  awake  till  morning.  When  he 
awoke,  he  crawled  toward  the  edge  of  this  great  bed,  put  his 
head  out,  and  seeing  no  one,  descended  as  he  had  gone  up, 
went  out  where  he  had  come  in,  pursued  his  way  through  little 
by-paths,  taking  the  cathedral  for  his  polar  star;  and,  after  a 
short  walk,  came  out  under  the  walls  of  Milan,  between  the 
Porta  Orientale  and  the  Porta  Nuova,  and  rather  nearer  to 
the  latter. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AS  to  the  way  of  entering  the  city,  Renzo  had  heard,  in 
general  terms,  that  there  were  very  strict  orders  not  to 
^  admit  persons  without  a  certificate  of  health;  but  that, 
in  fact,  it  was  easy  enough  for  any  one  to  effect  an  en- 
trance who  at  all  knew  how  to  help  himself,  and  to  seize  op- 
portunities. So  it  was;  and,  letting  alone  the  general  causes 
why  every  order,  in  those  days,  was  so  imperfectly  executed; 
letting  alone  the  particular  ones,  which  rendered  the  rigorous 
execution  of  this  so  impracticable,  Milan  was  now  reduced  to 
such  a  pass  that  no  one  could  see  of  what  use  it  was  to  defend 
it,  or  against  what  it  was  to  be  defended;  and  whoever  came 
thither  might  be  considered  rather  to  risk  his  own  health  than 
to  endanger  that  of  the  inhabitants. 

Upon  this  information,  Renzo's  intention  was  to  attempt 
a  passage  at  the  first  gate  upon  which  he  might  happen  to 
light;  and  if  any  obstacle  presented  itself,  to  go  round  out- 
side, until  he  found  another  more  easy  of  access.  And  Heaven 
knows  how  many  gates  he  thought  Milan  must  have! 

Arrived,  then,  before  the  walls,  he  stood  still  to  look  about 
him,  as  one  does  who,  not  knowing  which  will  be  the  best 
way  to  bend  his  steps,  seems  as  if  he  waited  and  asked  direc- 
tion from  anything.  But  he  could  discover  nothing  either 
way  but  two  reaches  of  a  winding  road,  and  before  him  a 
part  of  the  wall;  in  no  quarter  was  there  a  symptom  of  a  hu- 
man being,  except  that  in  one  spot,  on  the  platform,  might 
be  seen  a  dense  column  of  black  and  murky  smoke,  which  ex- 
panded itself  as  it  mounted,  and  curled  into  ample  circles,  and 
afterward  dispersed  itself  through  the  grey  and  motionless  at- 
mosphere. They  were  clothes,  beds,  and  other  articles  of  in- 
fected furniture  which  were  being  committed  to  the  fiames: 
and  such  melancholy  conflagrations  were  constantly  to  be 
seen,  not  only  here,  but  on  every  side  of  the  wall. 

The  weather  was  close,  the  air  thick  and  heavy,  the  whole 
sky  veiled  by  a  uniform,  sluggish  cloud  or  mist,  which  seemed 
to  forbid  the  sun,  without  giving  promise  of  rain;  the  country 

503 


504 


MANZONI 


round  was  partly  uncultivated,  and  the  whole  looked  parched; 
vegetation  was  stunted,  and  not  a  drop  of  dew  moistened  the 
drooping  and  withered  leaves.  This  solitude,  this  deep  si- 
lence, so  near  a  large  mass  of  habitations,  added  new  con- 
sternation to  Renzo's  disquietude,  and  rendered  his  thoughts 
still  more  gloomy. 

Having  stood  thus  for  a  moment,  he  took  the  right  hand, 
at  a  venture,  directing  his  steps,  without  being  aware  of  it, 
toward  the  Porta  Nuova,  which,  though  close  at  hand,  he 
had  not  been  able  to  perceive,  on  account  of  a  bastion  behind 
which  it  was  concealed.  After  taking  a  few  steps,  a  tinkling 
of  little  bells  fell  upon  his  ear,  which  ceased  and  was  renewed 
at  intervals,  and  then  the  voices  of  men.  He  went  forward; 
and  having  turned  the  corner  of  the  bastion,  the  first  thing 
that  met  his  eye  on  the  esplanade  before  the  gate  was  a  small 
wooden  house,  or  sentry-box,  at  the  doorway  of  which  stood 
a  guard,  leaning  on  his  musket  with  a  languid  and  negligent 
air;  behind  was  a  fence,  composed  of  stakes,  and  beyond  that 
the  gate,  that  is  to  say,  two  wings  of  the  wall  connected  by  a 
roof  above,  which  served  to  shelter  the  door,  both  leaves  of 
which  were  wide  open,  as  was  also  the  wicket  of  the  palisade. 
Exactly  before  the  opening,  however,  stood  a  melancholy 
impediment — a  handbarrow,  placed  upon  the  ground,  on 
which  two  monatti  were  laying  out  a  poor  creature  to  bear 
him  away:  it  was  the  head  of  the  custom-house  officers,  in 
whom  the  plague  had  been  discovered  just  before.  Renzo 
stood  still  w^here  he  was,  awaiting  the  issue.  The  party  being 
gone,  and  no  one  appearing  to  shut  the  gate  again,  now 
seemed  to  be  his  time;  he  hastened  forward;  but  the  ill-look- 
ing sentinel  called  out  to  him:  "Holla!"  He  instantly 
stopped,  and  winking  at  the  man,  drew  out  a  half-ducat,  and 
showed  it  him.  The  fellow,  either  having  already  had  the 
pestilence,  or  fearing  it  less  than  he  loved  half-ducats,  beck- 
oned to  Renzo  to  throw  it  to  him;  and  soon  seeing  it  roll  at 
his  feet,  muttered,  "  Go  forward,  quickly."  Renzo  gave  him 
no  occasion  to  repeat  the  order;  he  passed  the  palisade,  en- 
tered the  gate,  and  went  forward  without  any  one  observing 
or  taking  any  notice  of  him;  except  that  when  he  had  gone 
perhaps  forty  paces,  he  heard  another  "  holla  "  from  a  toll- 
gatherer  who  was  calling  after  him.  This  he  pretended  not 
to  hear,  and  instead  of  turning  roimd,  only  quickened  his 
pace.  "  Holla!  "  cried  the  collector  again,  in  a  tone,  however, 
which  rather  indicated  vexation  than  a  determination  to.  be 
obeyed :  and  finding  he  was  not  obeyed,  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  returned  into  the  house,  like  one  who  was  more  con- 


THE   BETROTHED 


505 


cerned  about  not  approaching  too  near  to  passengers,  than 
inquiring  into  their  affairs. 

The  street  inside  this  gate,  at  that  time,  as  now,  ran  straight 
forward  as  far  as  the  canal  called  the  Naviglio:  at  the  sides 
were  hedges  or  walls  of  gardens,  churches,  convents,  and  a 
few  private  dwellings;  and  at  the  end  of  this  street,  in  the 
middle  of  that  which  ran  along  the  brink  of  the  canal,  was 
erected  a  cross,  called  the  Cross  of  Sant'  Eusebio.  And,  let 
Renzo  look  before  him  as  he  would,  nothing  but  this  cross 
ever  met  his  view.  Arrived  at  the  cross  road,  which  divided 
the  street  about  half  way,  and  looking  to  the  right  and  left, 
he  perceived  in  the  right-hand  one,  which  bore  the  name  of 
Santa  Teresa,  a  citizen  who  was  coming  exactly  toward  him. 
— A  Christian,  at  last! — said  he  to  himself,  and  he  immediately 
turned  into  the  street,  with  the  intention  of  making  some  in- 
quiries of  him.  The  man  stared  at  and  eyed  the  stranger  who 
was  advancing  toward  him,  with  a  suspicious  kind  of  look, 
even  at  a  distance;  and  still  more,  when  he  perceived,  that, 
instead  of  going  about  his  own  business,  he  was  making  up 
to  him.  Renzo,  when  he  was  within  a  little  distance,  took 
off  his  hat,  like  a  respectful  mountaineer,  such  as  he  was; 
and  holding  it  in  his  left  hand,  put  the  whole  fist  of  his  right 
into  the  empty  crown,  and  advanced  more  directly  toward 
the  unknown  passenger.  But  he,  wildly  rolling  his  eyes,  gave 
back  a  step,  uplifted  a  knotty  stick  he  carried,  with  a  sharp 
spike  at  the  end  like  a  rapier,  and  pointing  it  at  Renzo's  breast, 
cried,  ''  Stand  off!  stand  off !  " 

"  Oho !  "  cried  the  youth,  in  his  turn,  putting  on  his  hat 
again;  and  w^illing  to  do  anything,  as  he  afterward  said  in  re- 
lating the  matter,  rather  than  pick  a  quarrel  at  that  moment, 
he  turned  his  back  upon  the  uncourteous  citizen,  and  pursued 
his  way,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  that  in  which  he  hap- 
pened to  have  set  off. 

The  citizen  also  continued  his  route,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot,  and  every  now  and  then  looking  behind  him.  And 
having  reached  home,  he  related  how  a  poisoner  had  come 
up  to  him,  with  a  meek  and  humble  air,  but  with  the  look  of 
an  infamous  impostor,  and  with  a  box  of  ointment  or  a  paper 
of  powder  (he  was  not  exactly  certain  which)  in  his  hand  in 
the  crown  of  his  hat,  with  the  intention  of  playing  a  trick  upon 
him,  if  he  hadn't  known  how  to  keep  him  at  a  distance.  ''If 
he  had  come  one  step  nearer,"  added  he,  "  Td  have  run  him 
through  before  he'd  had  time  to  touch  me,  the  scoundrel! 
The  misfortune  was  that  we  were  in  so  unfrequented  a  place; 
had  It  been  In  the  heart  of  Milan,  I'd  have  called  people,  and 


5o6 


MANZONI 


bid  them  seize  him.  I'm  sure  we  should  have  found  that  in- 
famous poison  in  his  hat.  But  there,  all  alone,  I  was  obliged 
to  be  content  with  saving  myself,  without  running  the  risk 
of  getting  the  infection;  for  a  little  powder  is  soon  thrown, 
and  these  people  are  remarkably  dexterous:  besides,  they  have 
the  devil  on  their  side.  He'll  be  about  Milan  now:  who 
knows  what  murders  he  is  committing!  "  And  as  long  as  he 
lived,  which  was  many  years,  every  time  that  poisoners  were 
talked  of,  he  repeated  his  own  instance,  and  added:  "They 
who  still  maintain  that  it  wasn't  true,  don't  let  them  talk  to 
me:  for  absolute  facts  one  couldn't  help  seeing." 

Renzo,  far  from  imagining  what  a  stab  he  had  escaped, 
and  more  moved  with  anger  than  fear,  reflected,  in  walking, 
on  this  reception,  and  pretty  nearly  guessed  the  opinion  which 
the  citizen  had  formed  of  his  actions;  yet  the  thing  seemed 
to  him  so  beyond  all  reason,  that  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  man  must  have  been  half  a  fool. — It's  a  bad  begin- 
ning— thought  he,  however; — it  seems  as  if  there  were  an  evil 
star  for  me  at  this  ^Milan.  Everything  seconds  me  readily 
enough  in  entering;  but  afterward,  when  I  am  in,  I  find  dis- 
agreeabilities  all  prepared  for  me.  Well  .  .  .  with  God's  help 
.  ...  if  I  find  ....  if  I  succeed  in  finding  .  .  .  Oh!  all  will 
have  been  nothing! 

Having  reached  the  foot  of  the  bridge,  he  turned  without 
hesitation  to  the  left,  along  a  road  called  San  Marco's  Street, 
as  it  seemed  to  him  this  must  lead  into  the  heart  of  the  city. 
As  he  w^ent  along,  he  kept  constantly  on  the  lookout,  in  hopes 
of  discovering  some  human  creature;  but  he  could  see  none 
except  a  disfigured  corpse  in  the  little  ditch  which  runs  be- 
tween the  few^  houses  (which  were  then  still  fewer)  and  the 
street,  for  a  part  of  the  way.  Having  passed  this  part,  he 
heard  some  cries,  which  seemed  to  be  addressed  to  him;  and 
turning  his  eyes  upward  in  the  direction  whence  the  sound 
came,  he  perceived,  at  a  little  distance,  on  the  balcony  of  an 
isolated  dwelling,  a  poor  woman,  with  a  group  of  children 
around  her,  who,  calling  to  him,  was  beckoning  also  with  her 
hand  to  entreat  him  to  approach.  He  ran  toward  her;  and 
when  he  came  near,  ''  O  young  man,"  said  the  woman,  "  in 
the  name  of  the  friends  you've  lost,  have  the  charity  to  go 
and  tell  the  commissary  that  we  are  here  forgotten!  They've 
shut  us  up  in  the  house  as  suspected  persons,  because  my 
poor  husband  is  dead;  they've  nailed  up  the  door,  as  you 
see;  and  since  yesterday  morning  nobodv  has  brought  us 
anything  to  eat:  for  the  many  hours  I've  stood  here,  I 
haven't  been  able  to  find  a  single  Christian  who  would  do 


THE   BETROTHED  507 

me  this  kindness:  and  these  poor  little  innocents  are  dying  of 
hunger!  " 

"Of  hunger!"  exclaimed  Renzo;  and  putting  his  hands 
into  his  pocket,  *' See  here!  "said  he,  drawing  out  the  two 
loaves;  "  send  something  down  to  take  them." 

''  God  reward  you  for  it!  wait  a  moment,"  said  the  woman; 
and  she  went  to  fetch  a  little  basket,  and  a  cord  by  which  to 
lower  it  for  the  bread.  Renzo  at  this  moment  recollected  the 
two  loaves  he  had  found  near  the  Cross  on  his  first  entrance 
into  Milan,  and  thought  to  himself: — See,  it's  a  restitution, 
and  perhaps  better  than  if  I'd  found  the  real  owner;  for  this 
surely  is  a  deed  of  charity! 

"  As  to  the  commissary  you  mention,  my  good  woman," 
said  he,  putting  the  bread  into  the  basket,  "  I'm  afraid  I  can't 
serve  you  at  all;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  a  stranger,  and 
have  no  acquaintance  with  any  one  in  this  country.  However, 
if  I  meet  any  one  at  all  civil  and  human  to  speak  to,  I'll  tell 
him." 

The  woman  begged  he  would  do  so,  and  told  him  the  name 
of  the  street,  by  which  he  might  describe  the  situation. 

''  You,  too,  I  think,"  resumed  Renzo,  ''  can  do  me  a  serv- 
ice, a  real  kindness,  without  any  trouble.  A  family  of  high 
rank,  very  great  signors  here  in  Milan,  the  family  of  *  *  *  *; 
can  you  tell  me  where  they  live?  " 

"  I  know  very  well  there  is  such  a  family,"  replied  the 
woman;  *'  but  where  it  is  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  If  you  go 
forward  into  the  city,  in  this  direction,  you'll  find  somebody 
who  will  show  you  the  way.  And  don't  forget  to  tell  him 
about  us!  " 

"  Don't  fear  it,"  said  Renzo ;  and  he  pursued  his  way. 

At  every  step  he  heard  increasing,  and  drawing  nearer,  a 
noise  which  he  had  already  begun  to  distinguish  as  he  stood 
talking  with  the  woman:  a  noise  of  w^heels  and  horses,  with  a 
tinkling  of  little  bells,  and  every  now  and  then  a  cracking  of 
whips,  and  loud  vociferations.  He  looked  before  him,  but 
saw  nothing.  Having  reached  the  end  of  this  winding  street, 
and  got  a  view  of  the  square  of  San  Marco,  the  objects  which 
first  met  his  eye  were  two  erect  beams,  with  a  rope  and  sun- 
dry pulleys,  which  he  failed  not  immediately  to  recognize  (for 
it  was  a  familiar  spectacle  in  those  days)  as  the  abominable 
instrument  of  torture.  It  was  erected  in  that  place  (and  not 
only  there,  but  in  all  the  squares  and  most  spacious  streets), 
in  order  that  the  deputies  of  every  quarter,  furnished  with 
this  most  arbitrary  of  all  means,  might  be  able  to  apply  it 
immediately  to  any  one  whom  they  should  deem  deserving  of 


5o8  MANZONI 

punishment,  whether  it  were  sequestrated  persons  who  left 
their  houses,  or  officers  rebelHng  against  orders,  and  whatever 
else  it  might  be:  it  was  one  of  those  extravagant  and  ineffi- 
cacious remedies,  of  which,  in  those  days,  and  at  that  particu- 
lar period  especially,  they  were  so  extremely  prodigal. 

While  Renzo  was  contemplating  this  machine,  wondering 
why  it  was  erected  in  that  place,  and  listening  to  the  close- 
approaching  sound,  behold,  he  saw  appearing  from  behind  the 
corner  of  the  church  a  man  ringing  a  little  bell:  it  was  an 
apparitore;  and  behind  him  two  horses,  which,  stretching 
their  necks  and  pawing  with  their  hoofs,  could  with  difficulty 
make  their  way;  and  drawn  by  these  a  cart  full  of  dead  bod- 
ies, and  after  that  another,  and  then  another,  and  another; 
and  on  each  hand  monatti  walking  by  the  side  of  the  horses, 
hastening  them  on  with  whips,  blows,  and  curses.  These 
corpses  were  for  the  most  part  naked,  while  some  were  miser- 
ably enveloped  in  tattered  sheets,  and  were  heaped  up  and 
twined  together,  almost  like  a  nest  of  snakes  slowly  unfolding 
themselves  to  the  warmth  of  a  mild  spring  day;  so  that  at 
every  trifling  obstacle,  at  every  jolt,  these  fatal  groups  were 
seen  shivering  and  falling  into  horrible  confusion,  heads  dan- 
gling down,  women's  long  tresses  dishevelled,  arms  torn  off 
and  striking  against  the  wheels,  exhibiting  to  the  already  hor- 
ror-stricken view  how  such  a  spectacle  may  become  still  more 
wretched  and  disgraceful. 

The  youth  had  paused  at  the  corner  of  the  square,  by  the 
side  of  the  railing  of  the  canal,  and  was  praying,  meanwhile, 
for  these  unknown  dead.  A  horrible  thought  flashed  across 
his  mind: — Perhaps  there,  among  these,  beneath  them!  .... 
O  Lord!  let  it  not  be  true!  help  me  not  to  think  of  it! 

The  funeral  procession  having  disappeared,  he  moved  on, 
crossing  the  square,  and  taking  the  street  along  the  left-hand 
side  of  the  canal,  without  other  reason  for  his  choice  than  be- 
cause the  procession  had  taken  the  opposite  direction.  After 
going  a  few  steps  between  the  side  of  the  church  and  the  canal, 
he  saw  to  the  right  the  bridge  Marcellino;  he  crossed  it,  and 
by  that  oblique  passage  arrived  in  the  street  of  the  Borgo 
Nuovo.  Casting  his  eyes  forward,  on  the  constant  lookout 
for  some  one  of  whom  he  might  ask  direction,  he  saw  at  the 
other  end  of  the  street  a  priest  clothed  in  a  doublet,  with  a 
small  stick  in  his  hand,  standing  near  a  half-open  door,  with 
his  head  bent,  and  his  ear  at  the  aperture;  and  verv  soon  after- 
ward he  saw  him  raise  his  hand  to  pronounce  a  blessing.  He 
guessed — what  in  fact  was  the  case — that  he  had  just  finished 
confessing  some  one;  and  said  to  himself:  ''This  is  my  man. 


THE   BETROTHED 


509 


If  a  priest,  in  the  exercise  of  his  functions,  hasn't  a  Httle 
charity,  a  httle  good-nature  and  kindness,  I  can  only  say  there 
is  none  left  in  the  world." 

In  the  mean  while  the  priest,  leaving  the  doorway,  ad- 
vanced toward  Renzo,  walking  with  much  caution  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road.  When  he  was  within  four  or  five  paces  of 
him,  Renzo  took  off  his  hat  and  signified  that  he  wanted  to 
speak  to  him,  stopping,  at  the  same  time,  so  as  to  let  him 
understand  that  he  would  not  approach  too  indiscreetly.  The 
priest  also  paused,  with  the  air  of  one  prepared  to  listen,  plant- 
ing his  stick,  however,  on  the  ground  before  him,  to  serve,  as 
it  were,  for  a  kind  of  bulwark.  Renzo  proposed  his  inquiries, 
w^hich  the  good  priest  readily  satisfied,  not  only  telling  him 
the  name  of  the  street  where  the  house  was  situated,  but  giv- 
ing him  also,  as  he  saw  the  poor  fellow  had  need  of  it,  a  little 
direction  as  to  his  way;  pointing  out  to  him,  i.  e.  by  the  help 
of  right  and  left  hands,  crosses  and  churches,  those  other  six 
or  eight  streets  he  had  yet  to  traverse  before  reaching  the 
one  he  w^as  inquiring  after. 

'*  God  keep  you  in  good  health,  both  in  these  days  and 
always !  "  said  Renzo :  and  as  the  priest  prepared  to  go  away, 
"Another  favour,"  added  he;  and  he  told  him  of  the  poor 
forgotten  woman.  The  worthy  priest  thanked  him  for  having 
given  him  this  opportunity  of  conveying  assistance  where  it 
was  so  much  needed;  and  saying  that  he  would  go  and  inform 
the  proper  authorities,  took  his  departure. 

Renzo,  making  a  bow,  also  pursued  his  way,  and  tried,  as 
he  went  along,  to  recapitulate  the  instructions  he  had  received, 
that  he  might  be  obliged  as  seldom  as  possible  to  ask  fur- 
ther directions.  But  it  can  not  be  imagined  how  difficult  he 
found  the  task;  not  so  much  on  account  of  the  perplexity  of 
the  thing,  as  from  a  fresh  uneasiness  which  had  arisen  in  his 
mind.  That  name  of  the  street,  that  tracing  of  the  road,  had 
almost  upset  him.  It  was  the  information  he  had  desired  and 
requested,  without  which  he  could  do  nothing;  nor  had  any- 
thing been  said  to  him,  together  with  it,  which  could  suggest 
a  presage,  not  to  say  a  suspicion,  of  misfortune.  Yet  how 
was  it?  The  rather  more  distinct  idea  of  an  approaching  ter- 
mination to  his  doubts,  when  he  might  hear  either,  "  She  is 
living; "  or,  on  the  other  hand,  "  She  is  dead  "—that  idea  had 
come  before  him  with  so  much  force,  that  at  that  moment  he 
would  rather  have  been  in  ignorance  about  everything,  and 
have  been  at  the  beginning  of  that  journey  of  which  he  now 
found  himself  so  near  the  end.  He  gathered  up  his  courage, 
however: — Ah! — said  he  to  himself — if  we  begin  now  to  play 


510 


MANZONI 


the  child,  how  will  things  go  on? — Thus  re-emboldened  as 
best  might  be,  he  pursued  his  way,  advancing  further  into  the 
city. 

What  a  city!  and  who  found  time  in  those  days  to  recol- 
lect what  it  had  been  the  year  before,  by  reason  of  the  famine! 

Renzo  happened  to  have  to  pass  through  one  of  its  most 
unsightly  and  desolated  quarters;  that  junction  of  streets 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Carrobio  of  the  Porta  Nuova. 
(Here,  at  that  time,  was  a  cross  at  the  head  of  the  street,  and 
opposite  to  it,  by  the  side  of  the  present  site  of  San  Francesco 
di  Paola,  an  ancient  church,  bearing  the  name  of  Santa  Anas- 
tasia.)  Such  had  been  the  virulence  of  the  contagion,  and  the 
infection  of  the  scattered  corpses  in  this  neighbourhood,  that 
the  few  survivors  had  been  obliged  to  remove;  so  that  while 
the  passer-by  was  stunned  with  such  a  spectacle  of  solitude  and 
desertion,  more  than  one  sense  was  only  too  grievously  in- 
commoded and  ofifended  by  the  tokens  and  relics  of  recent 
habitation.  Renzo  quickened  his  steps,  consoling  himself 
with  the  thought  that  the  end  of  his  search  could  not  yet  be 
at  hand,  and  hoping  that  before  he  arrived  at  it,  he  would 
find  the  scene,  at  least  in  part,  changed;  and,  in  fact,  a  little 
further  on,  he  came  out  into  a  part  which  might  still  be  called 
the  city  of  the  living — but  what  a  city,  and  what  living!  All 
the  doorways  into  the  streets  kept  shut  from  either  suspicion 
or  alarm,  except  those  which  were  left  open  because  deserted 
or  invaded;  others  nailed  up  and  sealed  outside,  on  account 
of  the  sick,  or  dead,  who  lay  within;  others  marked  with  a 
cross  drawn  with  coal,  as  an  intimation  to  the  monatti  that 
there  were  dead  to  be  carried  away:  all  more  a  matter  of 
chance  than  otherwise,  according  as  there  happened  to  be 
here,  rather  than  there,  a  commissary  of  health,  or  other  offi- 
cer, who  was  inclined  either  to  execute  the  regulations,  or  to 
exercise  violence  and  oppression.  Everywhere  were  rags  and 
corrupted  bandages,  infected  straw,  or  clothes,  or  sheets, 
thrown  from  the  windows;  sometimes  bodies,  which  had  sud- 
denly fallen  dead  in  the  streets,  and  were  left  there  till  a  cart 
happened  to  pass  by  and  pick  them  up,  or  shaken  from  off  the 
carts  themselves,  or  even  thrown  from  the  windows.  To  such 
a  degree  had  the  obstinacy  and  virulence  of  the  contagion 
brutalized  men's  minds  and  divested  them  of  all  compassionate 
care,  of  every  feeling  of  social  respect!  The  stir  of  business, 
the  clatter  of  carriages,  the  cries  of  sellers,  the  talking  of  pas- 
sengers, all  were  everywhere  hushed;  and  seldom  was  the 
death-like  stillness  broken  but  by  the  rumbling  of  funeral  cars, 
the  lamentations  of  beggars,  the  groans  of  the  sick,  the  shouts 


THE   BETROTHED 


511 


of  the  frantic,  or  the  vociferations  of  the  monatti.  At  day- 
break, midday,  and  evening,  one  of  the  bells  of  the  cathedral 
gave  the  signal  for  reciting  certain  prayers  proposed  by  the 
Archbishop;  its  tones  were  responded  to  by  the  bells  of  the 
other  churches;  and  then  persons  might  be  seen  repairing  to 
the  windows  to  pray  in  common;  and  a  murmur  of  sighs  and 
voices  might  be  heard  which  inspired  sadness,  mingled  at  the 
same  time  with  some  feeling  of  comfort. 

Two-thirds,  perhaps,  of  the  inhabitants  being  by  this  time 
carried  off,  a  great  part  of  the  remainder  having  departed,  or 
lying  languishing  at  home,  and  the  concourse  from  without 
being  reduced  almost  to  nothing,  perhaps  not  one  individual 
among  the  few  wlio  still  went  about,  w^ould  be  met  within  a 
long  circuit,  in  whom  something  strange,  and  sufficient  in 
itself  to  infer  a  fatal  change  in  circumstances,  was  not  appar- 
ent. Men  of  the  highest- rank  might  be  seen  without  cape 
or  cloak,  at  that  time  a  most  essential  part  of  any  gentleman's 
dress;  priests  without  cassocks,  friars  without  cowls;  in  short, 
all  kinds  of  dress  were  dispensed  with  which  could  contract 
anything  in  fluttering  about,  or  give  (v/hich  was  more  feared 
than  all  the  rest)  facilities  to  the  poisoners.  And  besides  this 
carefulness  to  go  about  as  trussed  up  and  confined  as  pos- 
sible, their  persons  were  neglected  and  disorderly;  the  beards 
of  such  as  were  accustomed  to  wear  them  grown  much  longer, 
and  suffered  to  grow  by  those  who  had  formerly  kept  them 
shaven ;  their  hair,  too,  long  and  undressed,  not  only  from  the 
neglect  which  usually  attends  prolonged  depression,  but  be- 
cause suspicion  had  been  attached  to  barbers  ever  since  one 
of  them,  Giangiacomo  Mora,  had  been  taken  and  condemned 
as- a  famous. poisoner;  a  name  which,  for  a  long  while  after- 
ward, preserver  throughout  the  duchy  a  pre-eminent  celebrity 
in  infamy,  and  deserved  a  far  more  extensive  and  lasting  one 
in  commiseration.  The  greater  number  carried  in  one  hand 
a  stick,  some  even  a  pistol,  as  a  threatening  warning  to  any 
one  who  should  attempt  to  approach  them  stealthily;  and  in 
the  other,  perfumed  pastils,  or  little  balls  of  metal  or  wood, 
perforated  and  filled  with  sponges  steeped  in  aromatic  vinegar, 
which  they  applied  from  time  to  time,  as  they  went  along,  to 
their  noses,  or  held  there  continually.  Some  carried  a  small 
vial  hung  round  their  neck,  containing  a  little  quicksilver, 
persuaded  that  this  possessed  the  virtue  of  absorbing  and  ar- 
resting every  pestilential  effluvium;  this  they  were  very  careful 
to  renCAV  from  time  to  time.  Gentlemen  not  only  traversed 
the  streets  without  their  usual  attendants,  but  even  went  about 
with  a  basket  on  their  arms,  providing  the  common  necessaries 


512 


MANZONI 


of  life.  Even  friends,  when  they  met  in  the  streets  alive,  sa- 
luted each  other  at  a  distance,  with  silent  and  hasty  signs. 
Every  one,  as  he  walked  along,  had  enough  to  do  to  avoid  the 
filthy  and  deadly  stumbling-blocks  with  which  the  ground  was 
strewn,  and  in  some  places  even  encumbered.  Every  one 
tried  to  keep  the  middle  of  the  road,  for  fear  of  some  other  ob- 
stacle, some  other  more  fatal  weight,  which  might  fall  from 
the  windows;  for  fear  of  venomous  powders,  which  it  was 
affirmed  were  often  thrown  thence  upon  the  passengers;  for 
fear,  too,  of  the  walls,  which  might,  perchance,  be  anointed. 
Thus  ignorance,  unseasonably  secure,  or  preposterously  cir- 
cumspect, now  added  trouble  to  trouble,  and  incited  false  ter- 
rors in  compensation  for  the  reasonable  and  salutary  ones 
which  it  had  withstood  at  the  beginning. 

Such  are  the  less  disfigured  and  pitiable  spectacles  which 
were  everywhere  present;  the  sight  of  the  whole,  the  wealthy; 
for  after  so  many  pictures  of  misery,  and  remembering  that 
still  more  painful  one  which  it  remains  for  us  to  describe,  we 
will  not  now  stop  to  tell  what  was  the  condition  of  the  sick  who 
dragged  themselves  along,  or  lay  in  the  streets — beggars, 
women,  and  children.  It  was  such  that  the  spectator  could 
find  a  desperate  consolation,  as  it  were,  in  what  appears  at 
first  sight,  to  those  who  are  far  removed  in  place  and  time, 
the  climax  of  misery;  the  thought,  I  mean — the  constant  ob- 
servation, that  the  survivors  were  reduced  to  so  small  a 
number. 

Renzo  had  already  gone  some  distance  on  his  way  through 
the  midst  of  this  desolation,  when  he  heard,  proceeding  from 
a  street  a  few  yards  off,  into  which  he  had  been  directed  to 
turn,  a  confused  noise,  in  which  he  readily  distinguished  the 
usual  horrible  tinkling. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  street,  which  was  one  of  the  most 
spacious,  he  perceived  four  carts  standing  in  the  middle;  and 
as  in  a  corn-market  there  is  a  constant  hurrying  to  and  fro 
of  people,  and  an  emptying  and  filling  of  sacks,  such  was  the 
bustle  here;  monatti  intruding  into  houses,  monatti  coming 
out,  bearing  a  burden  upon  their  shoulders,  which  they  placed 
upon  one  or  other  of  the  carts;  some  in  red  livery,  others 
without  that  distinction:  many  with  another  still  more  odious, 
plumes  and  cloaks  of  various  colours,  which  these  miserable 
wretches  w^ore  in  the  midst  of  the  general  mourning,  as  if  in 
honour  of  a  festival.  From  time  to  time  the  mournful  cry 
resounded  from  one  of  the  windows,  "  Here,  monatti!  "  And, 
with  a  still  more  wretched  sound,  a  harsh  voice  rose  from  this 
horrible  source  in  reply,  "Coming  directly!"     Or  else  there 


THE   BETROTHED  513 

were  lamentations  nearer  at  hand,  or  entreaties  to  make  haste; 
to  which  the  monatti  responded  with  oaths. 

Having  entered  the  street,  Renzo  quickened  his  steps,  try- 
ing not  to  look  at  these  obstacles  further  than  was  necessary 
to  avoid  them;  his  attention,  however,  was  arrested  by  a  re- 
markable object  of  pity,  such  pity  as  inclines  to  the  contem- 
plation of  its  object;  so  that  he  came  to  a  pause  almost  with- 
out determining  to  do  so. 

Coming  down  the  steps  of  one  of  the  doorways,  and  ad- 
vancing toward  the  convoy,  he  beheld  a  woman,  whose  ap- 
pearance announced  still-remaining,  though  somewhat  ad- 
vanced youthfulness;  a  veiled  and  dimmed,  but  not  destroyed 
beauty,  was  still  apparent,  in  spite  of  much  suffering,  and  a 
fatal  languor — that  delicate,  and,  at  the  same  time,  majestic 
beauty,  which  is  conspicuous  in  the  Lombard  blood.  Her 
gait  w^as  weary,  but  not  tottering;  no  tears  fell  from  her  eyes, 
though  they  bore  tokens  of  having  shed  many;  there  was 
something  peaceful  and  profound  in  her  sorrow,  which  indi- 
cated a  mind  fully  conscious  and  sensitive  enough  to  feel  it. 
But  it  was  not  only  her  own  appearance  which,  in  the  midst 
of  so  much  misery,  marked  her  out  so  especially  as  an  object 
of  commiseration,  and  revived  in  her  behalf  a  feeling  now  ex- 
hausted— extinguished  in  men's  hearts.  She  carried  in  her 
arms  a  little  child,  about  nine  years  old,  now  a  lifeless  body; 
but  laid  out  and  arranged,  with  her  hair  parted  on  her  fore- 
head, and  in  a  white  and  remarkably  clean  dress,  as  if  those 
hands  had  decked  her  out  for  a  long-promised  feast,  granted 
as  a  reward.  Nor  was  she  lying  there,  but  upheld  and  ad- 
justed on  one  arm,  w4th  her  breast  reclining  against  her 
mother's,  like  a  living  creature;  save  that  a  delicate  little  hand, 
as  white  as  wax,  hung  from  one  side  with  a  kind  of  inanimate 
weight,  and  the  head  rested  upon  her  mother's  shoulder  with 
an  abandonment  deeper  than  that  of  sleep:  her  mother;  for, 
even  if  their  likeness  to  each  other  had  not  given  assurance 
of  the  fact,  the  countenance  which  still  depicted  any  feeling 
would  have  clearly  revealed  it. 

A  horrible-looking  monatto  approached  the  woman,  and 
attempted  to  take  the  burden  from  her  arms,  with  a  kind  of 
unusual  respect,  however,  and  With  involuntary  hesitation. 
But  she,  slightly  drawing  back,  yet  with  the  air  of  one  who 
shows  neither  scorn  nor  displeasure,  said:  "No!  don't  take 
her  from  me  yet;  I  must  place  her  myself  on  this  cart:  here." 
So  saying,  she  opened  her  hand,  displayed  a  purse  which  she 
held  in  it,  and  dropped  it  into  that  which  the  monatto  ex- 
tended toward  her.  She  then  continued:  "  Promise  me  not  to 
33 


514  MANZONI 

take  a  thread  from  around  her,  nor  to  let  any  one  else  attempt 
to  do  so,  and  to  lay  her  in  the  ground  thus." 

The  monatto  laid  his  right  hand  on  his  heart;  and  then 
zealously,  and  almost  obsequiously,  rather  from  the  new  feel- 
ing by  which  he  was,  as  it  were,  subdued,  than  on  account  of 
the  unlooked-for  reward,  hastened  to  make  a  little  room  on  the 
car  for  the  infant  dead.  The  lady,  giving  it  a  kiss  on  the  fore- 
head, laid  it  on  the  spot  prepared  foK  it,  as  upon  a  bed,  ar- 
ranged it  there,  covering  it  with  a  pure  white  linen  cloth,  and 
pronounced  the  parting  words:  ''  Farewell,  Cecilia!  rest  in 
peace!  This  evening  we,  too,  will  join  you,  to  rest  together 
for  ever.  In  the  mean  while,  pray  for  us;  for  I  will  pray  for 
you  and  the  others."  Then,  turning  again  to  the  monatto, 
"  You,"  said  she,  "  when  you  pass  this  way  in  the  evening, 
may  come  to  fetch  me  too,  and  not  me  only." 

So  saying,  she  re-entered  the  house,  and,  after  an  instant, 
appeared  at  the  window,  holding  in  her  arms  another  more 
dearly-loved  one,  still  living,  but  with  the  marks  of  death  on 
its  countenance.  She  remained  to  contemplate  these  so  un- 
worthy obsequies  of  the  first  child,  from  the  time  the  car 
started  until  it  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  disappeared.  And 
what  remained  for  her  to  do,  but  to  lay  upon  the  bed  the  only 
one  that  was  left  her,  and  to  stretch  herself  beside  it,  that  they 
might  die  together?  as  the  flower  already  full  blown  upon  the 
stem,  falls  together  with  the  bud  still  enfolded  in  its  calyx, 
under  the  scythe  which  levels  alike  all  the  herbage  of  the  field. 

"O  Lord!"  exclaimed  Renzo,  "hear  her!  take  her  to 
Thyself,  her  and  that  little  infant  one:  they  have  suffered 
enough!  surely,  they  have  suffered  enough!" 

Recovered  from  these  singular  emotions,  and  while  trying 
to  recall  to  memory  the  directions  he  had  received,  to  ascer- 
tain whether  he  was  to  turn  at  the  first  street,  and  whether 
to  the  right  or  left,  he  heard  another  and  a  different  sound 
proceeding  from  the  latter,  a  confused  sound  of  imperious 
cries,  feeble  lamentations,  prolonged  groans,  sobs  of  women, 
and  children's  moans. 

He  went  forward,  oppressed  at  heart  by  that  one  sad  and 
gloomy  foreboding.  Having  reached  the  spot  where  the  two 
streets  crossed,  he  beheld  a  confused  multitude  advancing  from 
one  side,  and  stood  still  to  wait  till  it  had  passed.  It  was  a 
party  of  sick  on  their  way  to  the  Lazzeretto;  some  driven 
thither  by  force,  vainly  offering  resistance,  vainly  crying  that 
they  would  rather  die  upon  their  beds,  and  replying  with  impo- 
tent imprecations  to  the  oaths  and  commands  of  the  monatti 
who  were  conducting  them;  others  who  walked  on  in  silence, 


THE   BETROTHED 


515 


without  any  apparent  grief  and  without  hope,  like  insensible 
beings;  women  with  infants  clinging  to  their  bosoms;  children, 
terrified  by  the  cries,  the  mandates,  and  the  crowd,  more  than 
by  the  confused  idea  of  death,  with  loud  cries  demanding  their 
mother  and  her  trusted  embrace,  and  imploring  that  they 
might  remain  at  their  well-known  homes.  Alas!  perhaps 
their  mother,  whom  they  supposed  they  had  left  asleep  upon 
her  bed,  had  there  thrown  herself  down  senseless,  subdued  in 
a  moment  by  the  disease,  to  be  carried  away  on  a  cart  to  the 
Lazzeretto — or  the  grave,  if  perchance  the  car  should  arrive 
a  little  later.  Perhaps — oh  misfortune  deserving  of  still  more 
bitter  tears — the  mother,  entirely  taken  up  by  her  own  sufifer- 
ings,  had  forgotten  everything,  even  her  own  children,  and 
had  no  longer  any  wish  but  to  die  in  quiet. 

In  such  a  scene  of  confusion,  however,  some  examples  of 
constancy  and  piety  might  still  be  seen:  parents,  brothers, 
sons,  husbands,  supporting  their  loved  ones,  and  accompany- 
ing them  with  words  of  comfort ;  and  not  adults  only,  but  even 
boys  and  little  girls  escorting  their  younger  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, and,  with  manly  sense  and  compassion,  exhorting  them 
to  obedience,  and  assuring  them  that  they  were  going  to  a 
place  where  others  would  take  care  of  them  and  try  to  restore 
them  to  health. 

In  the  midst  of  the  sadness  and  emotions  of  tenderness 
excited  by  these  spectacles,  a  far  different  solicitude  pressed 
more  closely  on  our  traveller,  and  held  him  in  painful  sus- 
pense.    The  house  must  be  near  at  hand,   and  who  knew 

whether  among  these  people But  the   crowd  having 

all  passed  by,  and  this  doubt  being  removed,  he  turned  to  a 
monatto  who  was  walking  behind,  and  asked  him  for  the 
street  and  dwelling  of  Don  Ferrante.  ''  It's  gone  to  smash, 
clown,"  was  the  reply  he  received.  Renzo  cared  not  to  an- 
swer again ;  but  perceiving,  a  few  yards  distant,  a  commissary 
who  brought  up  the  convoy,  and  had  a  little  more  Christian- 
like countenance,  he  repeated  to  him  the  same  inquiry.  The 
commissary,  pointing  with  a  stick  in  the  direction  whence  he 
had  come,  said,  '*  The  first  street  to  the  right,  the  last  gentle- 
man's house  on  the  left." 

With  new  and  still  deeper  anxiety  of  mind,  the  youth  bent 
his  steps  thitherward,  and  quickly  distinguished  the  house 
among  others  more  humble  and  unpretending;  he  approached 
the  closed  door,  placed  his  hand  on  the  knocker,  and  held  it 
there  in  suspense,  as  in  an  urn,  before  drawing  out  the  ticket 
upon  which  depends  life  or  death.  At  length  he  raised  the 
hammer,  and  gave  a  resolute  knock. 


5i6 


MANZONI 


In  a  moment  or  two  a  window  was  slightly  opened,  and  a 
woman  appeared  at  it  to  peep  out,  looking  toward  the  door 
with  a  suspicious  countenance,  which  seemed  to  say — Monatti? 
robbers?  commissaries?  poisoners?  devils? 

"  Signora,"  said  Renzo,  looking  upward,  in  a  somewhat 
tremulous  tone,  "  is  there  a  young  country  girl  here  at  service, 
of  the  name  of  Lucia?  " 

"She's  here  no  longer;  go  away,"  answered  the  woman, 
preparing  to  shut  the  window. 

'*  One  moment,  for  pity's  sake!  She's  no  longer  here? 
Where  is  she?  " 

*' At  the  Lazzeretto;"  and  she  was  again  about  to  close 
the  window. 

"But  one  moment,  for  Heaven's  sake!  With  the  pes- 
tilence?" 

"  To  be  sure.     Something  new,  eh?     Get  you  gone." 

"  Oh,  stay!     Was  she  very  ill?     How  long  is  it?  " 

But  this  time  the  window  was  closed  in  reality. 

"Oh  Signora!  Signora!  one  word,  for  charity!  for  the 
sake  of  your  poor  dead!  I  don't  ask  you  for  anything  of 
yours:  alas!  oh!"  But  he  might  as  well  have  talked  to  the 
wall. 

Afflicted  by  this  Intelligence,  and  vexed  wnth  the  treatment 
he  had  received,  Renzo  again  seized  the  knocker,  and  stand- 
ing close  to  the  door,  kept  squeezing  and  twisting  it  in  his 
hand,  then  lifted  it  to  knock  again,  in  a  kind  of  despair,  and 
paused,  in  act  to  strike.  In  this  agitation  of  feeling,  he 
turned  to  see  if  his  eye  could  catch  any  person  near  at  hand, 
from  whom  he  might,  perhaps,  receive  some  more  sober  in- 
formation, some  direction,  some  light.  But  the  first,  the  only 
person  he  discovered  was  another  woman,  distant,  perhaps, 
about  twenty  yards;  who,  with  a  look  full  of  horror,  hatred, 
impatience,  and  malice,  with  a  certain  wild  expression  of  eye 
which  betrayed  an  attempt  to  look  at  him  and  something  else 
at  a  distance  at  the  same  time,  with  a  mouth  opened  as  if  on 
the  point  of  shouting  as  loud  as  she  could;  but  holding  even 
her  breath,  raising  two  thin,  bony  arms,  and  extending  and 
drawing  back  two  wrinkled  and  clenched  hands,  as  If  reaching 
to  herself  something,  gave  evident  signs  of  wishing  to  call 
people  without  letting  somebody  perceive  It.  On  their  eyes 
encountering  each  other,  she,  looking  still  more  hideous, 
started  like  one  taken  by  surprise. 

"  What  the  ?  "  began  Renzo,  raising  lils  fist  toward 

the  woman;  but  she,  having  lost  all  hope  of  being  able  to 
have  him  unexpectedly  seized,  gave  utterance  to  the  cry  she 


THE   BETROTHED  517 

had  hitherto  restrained:  ''The  poisoner!  seize  him!  seize  him! 
seize  him!  the  poisoner!" 

"Who?  I!  ah,  you  lying  old  witch!  hold  your  tongue 
there!"  cried  Renzo;  and  he  sprang  toward  her  to  frighten 
her  and  make  her  be  silent.  He  perceived,  however,  at  this  mo- 
ment, that  he  must  rather  look  after  himself.  At  the  screams 
of  the  woman  people  flocked  from  both  sides;  not  the  crowds, 
indeed,  which,  in  a  similar  case,  would  have  collected  three 
months  before;  but  still  more  than  enough  to  crush  a  single 
individual.  At  this  very  instant,  the  window  was  again  thrown 
open,  and  the  same  woman  who  had  shown  herself  so  un- 
courteous  just  before,  displayed  herself  this  time  in  full,  and 
cried  out,  ''  Take  him,  take  him;  for  he  must  be  one  of  those 
wicked  wretches  who  go  about  to  anoint  the  doors  of  gen- 
tlefolks." 

Renzo  determined  in  an  instant  that  it  would  be  a  better 
course  to  make  his  escape  from  them,  than  stay  to  clear  him- 
self; he  cast  an  eye  on  each  side  to  see  where  were  the  fewest 
people;  and  in  that  direction  took  to  his  legs.  He  repulsed, 
with  a  tremendous  push,  one  who  attempted  to  stop  his  pas- 
sage; with  another  blow  on  the  chest  he  forced  a  second  to  re- 
treat eight  or  ten  yards,  who  was  running  to  meet  him;  and 
away  he  went  at  full  speed,  with  his  tightly-clenched  list  up- 
lifted in  the  air,  in  preparation  for  whomsoever  should  come  in 
his  way.  The  street  was  clear  before  him;  but  behind  his  back 
he  heard  resounding  more  and  more  loudly  the  savage  cry, 
*  Seize  him!  seize  him!  a  poisoner!  "  he  heard,  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer,  the  footsteps  of  the  swiftest  among  his  pursuers. 
His  anger  became  fury,  his  anguish  was  changed  into  despera- 
tion; a  cloud  seemed  gathering  over  his  eyes;  he  seized  hold 
of  his  poniard,  unsheathed  it,  stopped,  drew  himself  up,  turned 
round  a  more  fierce  and  savage  face  than  he  had  ever  be- 
fore put  on  in  his  whole  life;  and,  brandishing  in  the  air,  with 
outstretched  arm,  the  glittering  blade,  exclaimed,  "  Let  him 
who  dares  come  forward,  you  rascals!  and  I'll  anoint  him 
with  this,  in  earnest." 

But,  with  astonishment  and  a  confused  feeling  of  relief,  he 
perceived  that  his  persecutors  had  already  stopped  at  some 
distance,  as  if  in  hesitation,  and  that  while  they  continued 
shouting  after  him,  they  were  beckoning  with  uplifted  hands, 
like  people  possessed  and  terrified  out  of  their  senses,  to  others 
at  some  distance  beyond  him.  He  again  turned  round,  and 
beheld  before  him,  and  a  very  little  way  ofif  (for  his  extreme 
perturbation  had  prevented  his  observing  it  a  moment  before), 
a  cart  advancing,  indeed  a  file  of  the  usual  funeral  carts,  with 


5i8 


MANZONI 


their  usual  accompaniments;  and  beyond  them  another  small 
band  of  people,  who  were  ready,  on  their  part,  to  fall  upon 
the  poisoner,  and  take  him  in  the  midst;  these,  however,  were 
also  restrained  by  the  same  impediment.  Finding  himself 
thus  between  two  fires,  it  occurred  to  him  that  what  was  to 
them  a  cause  of  terror  might  be  for  himself  a  means  of  safety ; 
he  thought  that  this  was  not  a  time  for  squeamish  scruples; 
so  again  sheathing  his  poniard,  he  drew  a  little  on  one  side, 
resumed  his  way  toward  the  carts,  and  passing  by  the  first, 
remarked  in  the  second  a  tolerably  empty  space.  He  took 
aim,  sprang  up,  and  lit  with  his  right  foot  in  the  cart,  his  left 
in  the  air,  and  his  arms  stretched  forward. 

"Bravo!  bravo!"  exclaimed  the  monatti  with  one  voice, 
some  of  whom  were  following  the  convoy  on  foot,  others  were 
seated  on  the  carts;  and  others,  to  tell  the  horrible  fact  as  it 
really  was,  on  the  dead  bodies,  quaffing  from  a  large  flask 
which  was  going  the  round  of  the  party.  "Bravo!  a  capi- 
tal hit!" 

"  You've  come  to  put  yourself  under  the  protection  of  the 
monatti:  you  may  reckon  yourself  as  safe  as  in  church,"  said 
one  of  the  two  who  were  seated  on  the  cart  upon  which  he  had 
thrown  himself. 

The  greater  part  of  his  enemies  had,  on  the  approach  of  the 
train,  turned  their  backs  upon  him  and  fled,  crying  at  the  same 
time,  "Seize  him!  seize  him!  a  poisoner!"  Some  few  of 
them,  however,  retired  more  deliberately,  stopping  every  now 
and  then,  and  turning  with  a  hideous  grin  of  rage  and  threat- 
ening gestures  toward  Renzo,  v/ho  replied  to  them  from  the 
cart  by  shaking  his  fist  at  them. 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  said  a  monatto;  and  tearing  a  filthy  rag 
from  one  of  the  bodies,  he  hastily  tied  it  in  a  knot,  and  taking 
it  by  one  of  its  ears,  raised  it  like  a  sling  toward  these  obstinate 
fellows,  and  pretended  to  hurl  it  at  them,  crying,  "  Here, 
you  rascals!"  At  this  action  they  all  fled  in  horror;  and 
Renzo  saw  nothing  but  the  backs  of  his  enemies,  and  heels 
which  bounded  rapidly  through  the  air,  like  the  hammers  in  a 
clothier's  mill. 

A  howl  of  triumph  arose  among  the  monatti,  a  stormy 
burst  of  laughter,  a  prolonged  "  Eh!  "  as  an  accompaniment, 
so  to  say,  to  this  fugue. 

"  Aha !  look  if  we  don't  know  how  to  protect  honest  fel- 
lows! "  said  the  same  monatto  to  Renzo;  "  one  of  us  is  worth 
more  than  a  hundred  of  those  cowards !  " 

"  Certainly,  I  may  say  I  owe  you  my  life,"  replied  he; 
"  and  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart." 


THE   BETROTHED 


5^9 


"  Not  a  word,  not  a  word,"  answered  the  monatto;  "  you 
deserve  it;  one  can  see  you're  a  brave  young  fellow.  You 
do  right  to  poison  these  rascals;  anoint  away,  extirpate  all 
those  who  are  good  for  nothing,  except  when  they're  dead; 
for  in  reward  for  the  life  we  lead,  they  only  curse  us,  and 
keep  saying  that  when  the  pestilence  is  over,  they'll  have 
us  all  hanged.  They  must  be  finished  before  the  pestilence; 
the  monatti  only  must  be  left  to  chant  victory  and  revel  in 
Milan." 

"  Long  live  the  pestilence,  and  death  to  the  rabble!  "  ex- 
claimed the  other;  and  with  this  beautiful  toast  he  put  the 
flask  to  his  mouth,  and  holding  it  with  both  his  hands  amid 
the  joltings  of  the  cart,  took  a  long  draught,  and  then  handed 
it  to  Renzo,  saying,  "  Drink  to  our  health." 

"  I  wish  it  you  all,  with  my  whole  heart,"  said  Renzo, 
''but  I'm  not  thirsty;  I  don't  feel  any  inclination  to  drink 
just  now." 

"  You've  had  a  fine  fright,  it  seems,"  said  the  monatto. 
"  You  look  like  a  harmless  creature  enough;  you  should  have 
another  face  than  that  to  be  a  poisoner." 

"  Let  everybody  do  as  he  can,"  said  the  other. 

"  Here,  give  it  me,"  said  one  of  those  on  foot  at  the  side 
of  the  car,  "  for  I,  too,  want  to  drink  another  cup  to  the  health 
of  his  honour,  who  finds  himself  in  such  capital  company  .... 
there,  there,  just  there,  among  that  elegant  carriage-full." 

And  with  one  of  his  hideous  and  cursed  grins  he  pointed 
to  the  cart  in  front  of  that  upon  which  our  poor  Renzo  was 
seated.  Then,  composing  his  face  to  an  expression  of  serious- 
ness still  more  wicked  and  revolting,  he  made  a  bow  in  that 
direction  and  resumed:  "  May  it  please  you,  my  Lord,  to  let 
a  poor  wretch  of  a  monatto  taste  a  little  of  this  wine  from 
your  cellar?  Mind  you,  sir:  our  way  of  life  is  only  so  so:  we 
have  taken  you  into  our  carriage  to  give  you  a  ride  into  the 
country;  and  then  it  takes  very  little  wine  to  do  harm  to  your 
lordships:  the  poor  monatti  have  good  stomachs." 

And  amid  the  loud  laughs  of  his  companions,  he  took  the 
fiask,  and  lifted  it  up,  but,  before  drinking,  turned  to  Renzo, 
fixed  his  eyes  on  his  face,  and  said  to  him,  with  a  certain  air 
of  scornful  compassion :  "  The  devil,  with  whom  you  have 
made  agreement,  must  be  very  young;  for  if  we  hadn't  been 
by  to  rescue  you,  he'd  have  given  you  mighty  assistance." 
And  amid  a  fresh  burst  of  laughter,  he  applied  the  flagon  to 
his  lips. 

"Give  us  some!  What!  give  us  some!"  shouted  many 
voices  from  the  preceding  car.     The  ruffian,  having  swallowed 


520 


MANZONI 


as  much  as  he  wished,  handed  the  great  flask  with  both  hands 
into  those  of  his  fellow-ruffians,  who  continued  passing  it 
round,  until  one  of  them,  having  emptied  it,  grasped  it  by  the 
neck,  slung  it  round  in  the  air  two  or  three  times,  and  dashed 
it  to  atoms  upon  the  pavement,  crying,  *'  Long  live  the  pesti- 
lence!" He  then  broke  into  one  of  their  licentious  ballads, 
and  was  soon  accompanied  by  all  the  rest  of  this  depraved 
chorus.  The  infernal  song,  mingled  with  the  tinkling  of  the 
bells,  the  rattle  of  the  carts,  and  the  trampling  of  men  and 
horses,  resounded  through  the  silent  vacuity  of  the  streets, 
and  echoing  in  the  houses,  bitterly  wrung  the  hearts  of  the 
few  who  still  inhabited  them. 

But  what  can  not  sometimes  turn  to  advantage?  What 
can  not  appear  good  in  some  case  or  another?  The  extremity 
of  a  moment  before  had  rendered  more  than  tolerable  to  Renzo 
the  company  of  these  dead  and  living  companions;  and  now 
the  sounds  that  relieved  him  from  the  awkwardness  of  such 
a  conversation,  were,  I  had  almost  said,  acceptable,  music 
to  his  ears.  Still  half  bewildered,  and  in  great  agitation,  he 
thanked  Providence  in  his  heart,  as  he  best  could,  that  he  had 
escaped  such  imminent  danger  without  receiving  or  inflicting 
injury;  he  prayed  for  assistance  to  deliver  himself  now  from 
his  deliverers ;  and  for  his  part  kept  on  the  look-out,  watching 
his  companions,  and  reconnoitring  the  road,  that  he  might 
seize  the  proper  moment  to  slide  quietly  down  without  giving 
them  an  opportunity  of  making  any  disturbance  or  uproar, 
which  might  stir  up  mischief  in  the  passers-by. 

And  lo!  on  turning  a  corner,  he  seemed  to  recognize  the 
place  along  which  they  were  about  to  pass:  he  looked  more 
attentively,  and  at  once  knew  it  by  more  certain  signs.  Does 
the  reader  know  where  he  was?  In  the  direct  course  to  the 
Porta  Orientale,  in  that  very  street  along  which  he  had  gone 
so  slowly,  and  returned  so  speedily,  about  twenty  months  be- 
fore. He  quickly  remembered  that  from  thence  he  could  go 
straight  to  the  Lazzeretto;  and  this  finding  of  himself  in  the 
right  way  without  any  endeavour  of  his  own,  and  without  di- 
rection, he  looked  upon  as  a  special  token  of  Divine  guidance, 
and  a  good  omen  of  what  remained.  At  that  moment  a  com- 
missary came  to  meet  the  cars,  who  called  out  to  the  monatti 
to  stop,  and  I  know  not  w^hat  besides:  it  need  only  be  said 
that  they  came  to  a  halt,  and  the  music  was  changed  into 
clamorous  dialogues.  One  of  the  monatti  seated  on  Renzo's 
car  jumped  down:  Renzo  said  to  the  other,  ''Thank  you  for 
your  kindness;  God  reward  you  for  it!  "  and  sprang  down  at 
the  opposite  side. 


THE   BETROTHED  52I 

"Get  you  gone,  poor  poisoner,"  replied  the  man;  "you'll 
not  be  the  fellow  that'll  ruin  Milan!  " 

Fortunately  there  was  no  one  at  hand  who  could  over- 
hear him.  The  party  had  stopped  on  the  left  hand  of  the 
street:  Renzo  hastily  crossed  over  to  the  opposite  side;  and, 
keeping  close  to  the  wall,  trudged  onward  toward  the  bridge; 
crossed  it;  followed  the  well-known  street  of  the  Borgo,  and 
recognized  the  Convent  of  the  Capuchins;  he  comes  close  to 
the  gates,  sees  the  projecting  corner  of  the  Lazzeretto,  passes 
through  the  palisade,  and  the  scene  outside  the  enclosure  is 
laid  open  to  his  view;  not  so  much  an  indication  and  specimen 
of  the  interior,  as  itself  a  vast,  diversified,  and  indescribable 
scene. 

Along  the  two  sides  which  are  visible  to  a  spectator  from 
this  point,  all  was  bustle  and  confusion;  there  was  a  great 
concourse;  an  influx  and  reflux  of  people;  sick  flocking  in 
crowds  to  the  Lazzeretto;  some  sitting  or  lying  on  the  edge 
of  one  or  other  of  the  moats  that  flanked  the  road,  whose 
strength  had  proved  insufBcient  to  carry  them  within  their 
place  of  retreat,  or,  when  they  had  abandoned  it  in  despair, 
had  equally  failed  to  convey  them  further  away.  Others  were 
wandering  about  as  if  stupefied;  and  not  a  few  were  abso- 
lutely beside  themselves:  one  would  be  eagerly  relating  his 
fancies  to  a  miserable  creature  labouring  under  the  malady; 
another  would  be  actually  raving;  while  a  third  appeared  with 
a  smiling  countenance,  as  if  assisting  at  some  gay  spectacle. 
But  the  strangest  and  most  clamorous  kind  of  so  melancholy 
a  gaiety,  was  a  loud  and  continual  singing,  which  seemed  to 
proceed  from  that  wretched  assembly,  and  even  drowned  all 
the  other  voices — a  popular  song  of  love,  joyous  and  playful, 
one  of  those  which  are  called  rural;  and  following  this  sound 
by  the  eye  to  discover  who  could  possibly  be  so  cheerful,  yon- 
der, tranquilly  seated  in  the  bottom  of  the  ditch  that  washes 
the  walls  of  the  Lazzeretto,  he  perceived  a  poor  wretch,  with 
upturned  eyes,  singing  at  the  very  stretch  of  his  voice! 

Renzo  had  scarcely  gone  a  few  yards  along  the  south  side 
of  the  edifice,  when  an  extraordinary  noise  arose  in  the  crowd, 
and  a  distant  cry  of  ''Take  care!"  and  ''Stop  him!"  He 
stood  upon  tiptoe,  looked  forward,  and  beheld  a  jaded  horse 
galloping  at  full  speed,  impelled  forward  by  a  still  more 
wretched  looking  rider:  a  poor  frantic  creature,  who,  seeing 
the  beast  loose  and  unguarded,  standing  by  a  cart,  had  hastily 
mounted  his  bare  back,  and  striking  him  on  the  neck  with 
his  fists,  and  spurring  him  with  his  heels,  was  urging  him 
impetuously  onward;  monatti  were  following,  shouting  and 


522 


MANZONI 


howling;  and  all  were  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  which 
whirled  around  their  heads. 

Confounded  and  weary  with  the  sight  of  so  much  misery, 
the  youth  arrived  at  the  gate  of  that  abode  where  perhaps 
more  was  concentrated  than  had  been  scattered  over  the  whole 
space  it  had  yet  been  his  fortune  to  traverse.  He  walked  up 
to  the  door,  entered  under  the  vaulted  roof,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  without  moving  in  the  middle  of  the  portico. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

LET  the  reader  imagine  the  enclosure  of  the  Lazzeretto  peo- 
pled with  sixteen  thousand  persons  ill  of  the  plague; 
4  the  whole  area  encumbered,  here  with  tents  and  cabins, 
there  with  carts,  elsewhere  with  people;  those  two  in- 
terminable ranges  of  portico  to  the  right  and  left,  covered, 
crowded,  with  dead  or  dying,  stretched  upon  mattresses,  or  the 
bare  straw;  and  throughout  the  whole  of  this,  so  to  say,  im- 
mense den,  a  commotion,  a  fluctuation,  like  the  swell  of  the 
sea;  and  within,  people  coming  and  going,  stopping  and  run- 
ning, some  sinking  under  disease,  others  rising  from  their  sick 
beds,  either  convalescent,  frantic,  or  to  attend  upon  others. 
Such  was  the  spectacle  which  suddenly  burst  upon  Renzo's 
view,  and  forced  him  to  pause  there,  horror-struck  and  over- 
powered. We  do  not  intend  to  describe  this  spectacle  by  itself, 
for  which,  doubtless,  none  of  our  readers  would  thank  us;  we 
will  only  follow  our  youth  in  his  painful  walk,  stop  where  he 
stopped,  and  relate  what  he  happened  to  witness,  so  far  as  is 
necessary  to  explain  what  he  did,  and  what  chanced  to  occur 
to  him. 

From  the  gate  where  he  stood,  up  to  the  temple  in  the 
middle,  and  from  that  again  to  the  opposite  gate,  ran  a  kind 
of  pathway,  free  from  cabins,  and  every  other  substantial  im- 
pediment; and,  at  a  second  glance,  he  observed  a  great  bustle 
of  removing  carts,  and  making  the  way  clear;  and  discovered 
ofificers  and  Capuchins  directing  this  operation,  and  at  the 
same  time  dismissing  all  those  who  had  no  business  there. 
Fearing  lest  he  also  should  be  turned  out  in  this  manner,  he 
slipped  in  between  the  pavilions,  on  the  side  to  which  he  had 
casually  turned — the  right. 

He  went  forward,  according  as  he  found  room  to  set  his 
foot  down,  from  cabin  to  cabin,  popping  his  head  into  each, 
casting  his  eye  upon  every  one  who  lay  outside,  gazing  upon 
countenances  broken  down  by  suffering,  contracted  by  spasm, 
or  motionless  in  death,  perchance  he  might  happen  to  find 
that  one  which,  nevertheless,  he  dreaded  to  find.     He  had 

523 


524 


MANZONI 


already,  however,  gone  some  considerable  distance,  and  often 
and  often  repeated  this  melancholy  inspection,  without  having 
yet  seen  a  single  woman;  he  concluded,  therefore,  that  these 
must  be  lodged  in  a  separate  quarter.  So  far  he  guessed;  but 
of  the  whereabouts  he  had  no  indication,  nor  could  he  form 
the  least  conjecture.  From  time  to  time  he  met  attendants, 
as  different  in  appearance,  dress,  and  behaviour,  as  the  mo- 
tive was  different  and  opposite  which  gave  to  both  one  and  the 
other  strength  to  live  in  the  exercise  of  such  of^ces:  in  the 
one,  the  extinction  of  all  feelings  of  compassion;  in  the  other, 
compassion  more  than  human.  But  from  neither  did  he  at- 
tempt to  ask  directions,  for  fear  of  creating  for  himself  new 
obstacles;  and  he  resolved  to  walk  on  by  himself  till  he  suc- 
ceeded in  discovering  women.  And  as  he  walked  along,  he 
failed  not  to  look  narrowly  around,  though  from  time  to  time 
he  was  compelled  to  withdraw  his  eyes,  overcome,  and,  as  it 
were  dazzled  by  the  spectacle  of  so  great  miseries.  Yet, 
whither  could  he  turn  them,  where  suffer  them  to  rest,  save 
upon  other  miseries  as  great? 

The  very  air  and  sky  added,  if  anything  could  add,  to  the 
horror  of  these  sights.  The  fog  had  condensed  by  degrees, 
and  resolved  itself  into  large  clouds,  which,  becoming  darker 
and  darker,  made  it  seem  like  the  tempestuous  closing  in  of 
evening;  except  that  toward  the  zenith  of  this  deep  and  low- 
ering sky,  the  sun's  disk  was  visible  as  from  behind  a  thick 
veil,  pale,  emitting  around  a  very  feeble  light,  which  was 
speedily  exhaled,  and  pouring  down  a  death-like  and  oppres- 
sive heat.  Every  now  and  then,  amid  the  vast  murmur  that 
floated  around,  was  heard  a  deep  rumbling  of  thimder,  in- 
terrupted, as  it  were,  and  irresolute;  nor  could  the  listener 
distinguish  from  which  side  it  came.  He  might,  indeed,  easily 
have  deemed  it  a  distant  sound  of  cars,  unexpectedly  coming 
to  a  stand.  In  the  country  round,  not  a  twig  bent  under  a 
breath  of  air,  not  a  bird  was  seen  to  alight  or  fly  away;  the 
swallow  alone,  appearing  suddenly  from  the  eaves  of  the 
enclosure,  skimmed  along  the  ground  with  extended  wing, 
sweeping,  as  it  were,  the  surface  of  the  field;  but,  alarmed 
at  the  surrounding  confusion,  rapidly  mounted  again  into  the 
air,  and  flew  away.  It  was  one  of  those  days  in  which,  among 
a  party  of  travellers,  not  one  of  them  breaks  the  silence;  and 
the  hunter  walks  pensively  along,  with  his  eyes  bent  to  the 
ground;  and  the  peasant,  digging  in  the  field,  pauses  in  his 
song,  without  being  aware  of  it;  one  of  those  days  which  are 
the  forerunners  of  a  tempest,  in  which  nature,  as  if  motion- 
less without,  while  agitated  by  internal  travail,  seems  to  op- 


THE   BETROTHED 


525 


press  every  living  thing,  and  to  add  an  undefinable  weight  to 
every  employment,  to  idleness,  to  existence  itself.  But  in 
that  abode  specially  assigned  to  suffering  and  death,  men 
hitherto  struggling  with  their  malady  might  be  seen  sinking 
under  this  new  pressure;  they  were  to  be  seen  by  hundreds 
rapidly  becoming  worse;  and  at  the  same  time,  the  last  strug- 
gle was  more  distressing,  and,  in  the  augmentation  of  suffer- 
ing, the  groans  were  still  more  stifled;  nor,  perhaps,  had  there 
yet  been  in  that  place  an  hour  of  bitterness  equal  to  this. 

The  youth  had  already  threaded  his  way  for  some  time 
without  success  through  this  maze  of  cabins,  when,  in  the 
variety  of  lamentations  and  confused  murmurs,  he  began  to 
distinguish  a  singular  intermixture  of  bleatings  and  infants' 
cries.  He  arrived  at  length  before  a  cracked  and  disjointed 
wooden  partition,  from  w^ithin  which  this  extraordinary  sound 
proceeded;  and  peeping  through  a  large  aperture  between 
two  boards,  he  beheld  an  enclosure  scattered  throughout  with 
little  huts,  and  in  these,  as  well  as  in  the  spaces  of  the  small 
camp  between  the  cabins,  not  the  usual  occupants  of  an  in- 
firmary, but  infants,  lying  upon  little  beds,  pillows,  sheets,  or 
cloths  spread  upon  the  ground,  and  nurses  and  other  women 
busily  attending  upon  them;  and,  which  above  everything 
else  attracted  and  engrossed  his  attention,  she-goats  mingled 
with  these,  and  acting  as  their  coadjutrices:  a  hospital  of  in- 
nocents, such  as  the  place  and  times  could  afford  them.  It 
was,  I  say,  a  novel  sight,  to  behold  some  of  these  animals 
standing  quietly  over  this  or  that  infant,  giving  it  suck,  and 
another  hastening  at  the  cry  of  the  child,  as  if  endued  with 
maternal  feeling,  and  stopping  by  the  side  of  the  little  claim- 
ant, and  contriving  to  dispose  itself  over  the  infant,  and  bleat- 
ing, and  fidgeting,  almost  as  if  demanding  some  one  to  come 
to  the  assistance  of  both. 

Here  and  there  nurses  were  seated  with  infants  at  the 
breast;  some  employing  such  expressions  of  affection  as 
raised  a  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the  spectator  whether  they  had 
been  induced  to  repair  thither  by  the  promises  of  reward,  or 
by  that  voluntary  benevolence  which  goes  in  search  of  the 
needy  and  afflicted.  One  of  these,  with  deep  sorrow  depicted 
in  her  countenance,  drew  from  her  breast  a  poor  weeping  little 
creature,  and  mournfully  went  to  look  for  an  animal  which 
might  be  able  to  supply  her  place;  another  regarded  with  a 
compassionate  look  the  little  one  asleep  on  her  bosom,  and 
gently  kissing  it,  went  to  lay  it  on  a  bed  in  one  of  the  cabins; 
while  a  third,  surrendering  her  breast  to  the  stranger  suck- 
ling, with  an  air  not  of  negligence,  but   of  preoccupation, 


526  MANZONI 

gazed  fixedly  up  to  heaven.  What  was  she  thinking  of,  with 
that  gesture,  with  that  look,  but  of  one  brought  forth  from 
her  own  bowels,  who,  perhaps  only  a  short  time  before,  had 
been  nourished  at  that  breast,  perchance  had  expired  on  that 
bosom! 

Other  women,  of  more  experience,  supplied  different 
ofBces.  One  would  run  at  the  cry  of  a  famished  child,  lift  it 
from  the  ground,  and  carry  it  to  a  goat,  feeding  upon  a  heap 
of  fresh  herbage ;  and  applying  it  to  the  creature's  paps,  would 
chide,  and,  at  the  same  time,  coax  the  inexperienced  animal 
with  her  voice,  that  it  might  quietly  lend  itself  to  its  new 
office ;  another  would  spring  forward  to  drive  ofif  a  goat  which 
was  trampling  under-foot  a  poor  babe,  in  its  eagerness  to 
suckle  another;  while  a  third  was  carrying  about  her  own  in- 
fant, and  rocking  it  in  her  arms,  now  trying  to  lull  it  to  sleep 
by  singing,  now  to  pacify  it  with  soothing  words,  and  calling 
it  by  a  name  she  had  herself  given  it.  At  this  moment  a 
Capuchin,  with  a  very  white  beard,  arrived,  bringing  two 
screaming  infants,  one  in  each  arm,  which  he  had  just  taken 
from  their  dying  mothers;  and  a  woman  ran  to  receive  them, 
and  went  to  seek  among  the  crowd,  and  in  the  flocks,  some 
one  that  would  immediately  supply  the  place  of  a  mother. 

More  than  once,  the  youth,  urged  by  his  anxiety,  had  torn 
himself  from  the  opening  to  resume  his  way;  and,  after  all, 
had  again  peeped  in  to  watch  another  moment  or  two. 

Having  at  length  left  the  place,  he  went  on  close  along 
the  partition,  until  a  group  of  huts,  which  were  propped 
against  it,  compelled  him  to  turn  aside.  He  then  went  round 
the  cabins,  with  the  intention  of  regaining  the  partition,  turn- 
ing the  corner  of  the  enclosure,  and  making  some  fresh  dis- 
coveries. But  while  he  was  looking  forward  to  reconnoitre 
his  way,  a  sudden,  transient,  instantaneous  apparition,  struck 
his  eye,  and  put  him  in  great  agitation.  He  saw,  about  a  hun- 
dred yards  off,  a  Capuchin  threading  his  way  and  quickly  be- 
coming lost  among  the  pavilions :  a  Capuchin,  who,  even  thus 
passingly,  and  at  a  distance,  had  all  the  bearing,  motions,  and 
figure  of  Father  Cristoforo.  With  the  frantic  eagerness  the 
reader  can  imagine,  he  sprang  forward  in  that  direction,  look- 
ing here  and  there,  winding  about,  backward,  forward,  inside 
and  out,  by  circles,  and  through  narrow  passages,  until  he 
again  saw,  with  increased  joy,  the  form  of  the  self-same  friar; 
he  saw  him  at  a  little  distance,  just  leaving  a  large  boiling  pot, 
and  going  with  a  porringer  in  his  hand  toward  a  cabin;  then 
he  beheld  him  seat  himself  in  the  doorway,  make  the  sign 
of  the  cross  on  the  basin  he  held  before  him,  and,  looking 


THE    BETROTHED 


527 


around  him,  like  one  constantly  on  the  alert,  begin  to  eat. 
It  was,  indeed,  Father  Cristoforo. 

The  history  of  the  friar,  from  the  point  at  which  we  lost 
sight  of  him  up  to  the  present  meeting,  may  be  told  in  a  few 
words.  He  had  never  removed  from  Rimini,  nor  even 
thought  of  removing,  until  the  plague,  breaking  out  in  Milan, 
afforded  him  the  opportunity  he  had  long  so  earnestly  desired, 
of  sacrificing  his  life  for  his  fellow-creatures.  He  urgently  en- 
treated that  he  might  be  recalled  from  Rimini  to  assist  and 
attend  upon  the  infected  patients.  The  Count,  Attilio's  uncle, 
was  dead;  and  besides,  the  times  required  tenders  of  the  sick 
rather  than  politicians;  so  that  his  request  was  granted  with- 
out difficulty.  He  came  immediately  to  Milan,  entered  the 
Lazzeretto,  and  had  now  been  there  about  three  months. 

But  the  consolation  Renzo  felt  in  thus  again  seeing  his 
good  friar  was  not  for  a  moment  unalloyed;  together  with 
the  certainty  that  it  was  he,  he  was  also  made  pamfuUy  aware 
of  how  much  he  was  changed.  His  stooping  and,  as  it  were, 
laborious  carriage,  his  wan  and  shrivelled  face,  all  betokened 
an  exhausted  nature,  a  broken  and  sinking  frame,  which  was 
assisted,  and,  as  it  were,  upheld  from  hour  to  hour  only  by  the 
energy  of  his  mind. 

He  kept  his  eye  fixed  on  the  youth  who  was  approaching 
him,  and  who  was  seeking  by  gestures  (not  daring  to  do  so 
with  his  voice)  to  make  him  distinguish  and  recognize  him. 
"  Oh  Father  Cristoforo!  "  said  he,  at  last,  when  he  was  near 
enough  to  be  heard  without  shouting. 

"You  here!"  said  the  friar,  setting  the  porringer  on  the 
ground,  and  rising  from  his  seat. 

"How  are  you,  Father? — how  are  you?" 

"  Better  than  the  many  poor  creatures  you  see,"  replied 
the  friar;  and  his  voice  was  feeble,  hollow,  and  as  changed 
as  everything  else  about  him.  His  eye  alone  was  what  it  al- 
ways was,  or  had  something  about  it  even  more  bright  and 
resplendent;  as  if  Charity,  elevated  by  the  approaching  end 
of  her  labours,  and  exulting  in  the  consciousness  of  being 
near  her  source,  restored  to  it  a  more  ardent  and  purer  fire 
than  that  which  infirmity  was  every  hour  extinguishing. 
"But  you,"  pursued  he,  "how  is  it  you're  in  this  place? 
What  makes  you  come  thus  to  brave  the  pestilence?" 

"  Fve  had  it,  thank  Heaven!  I  come  ....  to  seek  for 
.  .  .  .  Lucia." 

"  Lucia?     Is  Lucia  here?  " 

"  She  is;  at  least,  I  hope  in  God  she  may  still  be  here." 

"  Is  she  vour  wife?" 


528 


MANZONI 


"  Oh,  my  dear  Father!  My  wife!  no,  that  she's  not.  Don't 
you  know  anything  of  what  has  happened?" 

*'  No,  my  son;  since  God  removed  me  to  a  distance  from 
you,  I've  never  heard  anything  further;  but  now  that  He  has 
sent  you  to  me,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  that  I  wish  very  much 
to  know.     But  ....  and  the  sentence  of  outlawry?  " 

**  You  know,  then,  what  things  they've  done  to  me?" 

"  But  you,  what  had  you  done?  " 

"  Listen :  if  I  were  to  say  that  I  was  prudent  that  day  in 
Milan,  I  should  tell  a  lie;  but  I  didn't  do  a  single  wicked 
action." 

''  I  believe  you;  and  I  believed  it  too  before." 

"  Now,  then,  I  may  tell  you  all." 

"  Wait,"  said  the  friar;  and,  going  a  few  yards  out  of  the 
hut,  he  called,  ''  Father  Vittore !  "  In  a  moment  or  two,  a 
young  Capuchin  appeared,  to  whom  Cristoforo  said:  *'  Do  me 
the  kindness,  Father  Vittore,  to  take  my  share,  too,  of  waiting 
upon  our  patients,  while  I  am  absent  for  a  little  while;  and 
if  any  one  should  ask  for  me,  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
call  me.  That  one,  particularly;  if  ever  he  gives  the  least 
sign  of  returning  consciousness,  let  me  be  informed  of  it  di- 
rectly, for  charity's  sake." 

The  young  friar  answered  that  he  would  do  as  he  re- 
quested; and  then  Cristoforo,  turning  to  Renzo,  said:  '*  Let 
us  go  in  here.  But  .  .  .  ."  added  he  directly,  stopping,  "  you 
seem  to  me  very  tired;  you  must  want  something  to  eat." 

**  So  I  do,"  said  Renzo;  "  now  that  you've  reminded  me,  I 
remember  I'm  still  fasting." 

"  Stay,"  said  the  friar;  and  taking  another  porringer,  he 
went  to  fill  it  from  the  large  boiler;  he  then  returned,  and 
offered  it,  with  a  spoon,  to  Renzo;  made  him  sit  down  on  a 
straw  mattress  which  served  him  for  a  bed;  went  to  a  cask 
that  stood  in  one  corner,  and  drew  a  glass  of  wine,  which  he 
set  on  a  little  table  near  his  guest;  and  then,  taking  up  his 
own  porringer,  seated  himself  beside  him. 

"  Oh,  Father  Cristoforo !  "  said  Renzo,  "  is  it  your  busi- 
ness to  do  all  this?  But  you  are  always  the  same.  I  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart." 

"Don't  thank  me,"  said  the  friar;  "that  belongs  to  the 
poor;  but  you  too  are  a  poor  man  just  now.  Now,  then,  tell 
me  what  I  don't  know;  tell  me  about  our  poor  Lucia,  and  try 
to  do  it  in  a  few  words,  for  time  is  scarce,  and  there  is  plenty 
to  be  done,  as  you  see." 

Renzo  began,  between  one  spoonful  and  another,  to  re- 
late the  history  of  Lucia,  how  she  had  been  sheltered  in  the 


THE    BETROTHED 


529 


monastery  at  Monza,  how  she  had  been  forcibly  carried  off 
....  At  the  idea  of  such  sufferings  and  such  dangers,  and 
at  the  thought  that  it  was  he  who  had  directed  the  poor  inno- 
cent to  that  place,  the  good  friar  became  almost  breathless 
with  emotion;  but  he  was  quickly  relieved  on  hearing  how 
she  had  been  miraculcTusly  liberated,  restored  to  her  mother, 
and  placed  by  her  with  Donna  Prassede. 

''  Now  I  will  tell  you  about  myself,"  pursued  the  narrator; 
and  he  briefly  sketched  the  day  he  spent  in  Milan,  and  his 
flight,  and  how  he  had  long  been  absent  from  home,  and  now, 
everything  being  turned  upside  down,  he  had  ventured  to  go 
thither;  how  he  had  not  found  Agnese  there;  and  how  he 
had  learned  at  Milan  that  Lucia  was  at  the  Lazzeretto.  "  And 
here  I  am,"  he  concluded;  "  here  I  am  to  look  for  her,  to  see 
if  she's  still  living,  and  if  ...  .  she'll  still  have  me  ....  be- 
cause ....  sometimes  .  .  .  ." 

''But  how  were  you  directed  here?"  asked  the  friar. 
"  Have  you  any  information  whereabouts  she  was  lodged,  or 
at  what  time  she  came?  " 

*'  None,  dear  father;  none,  except  that  she  is  here,  if,  in- 
deed, she  be  still  living,  which  may  God  grant!  " 

"  Oh,  you  poor  fellow!  But  what  search  have  you  yet 
made  here?  " 

"  I've  wandered  and  wandered  about,  but  hitherto  I've 
scarcely  seen  anything  but  men.  I  thought  that  the  women 
must  be  in  a  separate  quarter,  but  I  haven't  yet  succeeded  in 
finding  it;  if  it  is  really  so,  now  you  can  tell  me." 

"  Don't  you  know,  my  son,  that  men  are  forbidden  to 
enter  that  quarter,  unless  they  have  some  business  there?" 

"Well,  and  what  could  happen  to  me?" 

"  The  regulation  is  just  and  good,  my  dear  son;  and  if  the 
number  and  weight  of  sorrows  forbid  the  possibility  of  its 
being  respected  with  full  rigour,  is  that  a  reason  why  an  hon- 
est man  should  transgress  it?  " 

"  But,  Father  Cristoforo,"  said  Renzo,  "  Lucia  ought  to 
be  my  wife;  you  know  how  we've  been  separated;  it's  twenty 
months  that  I've  suffered  and  borne  patiently;  I've  come  as 
far  as  here,  at  the  risk  of  so  many  things,  one  worse  than  the 
other;  and  now  then  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  resumed  the  friar,  replying 
rather  to  his  own  thoughts  than  to  the  words  of  the  young 
man.  ''  You  are  going  with  a  good  intention ;  and  would  to 
God  that  all  who  have  free  access  to  that  place  would  conduct 
themselves  as  I  can  feel  sure  you  will  do!  God,  who  certainly 
blesses  this  your  perseverance  of  affection,  this  your  faithful- 
34 


530  MANZONI 

ness  in  wishing  and  seeking  for  her  whom  He  has  given  you, 
God,  who  is  more  rigorous  than  men,  yet  more  indulgent, 
will  not  regard  what  may  be  irregular  in  your  mode  of  seek- 
ing for  her.  Only  remember,  that  for  your  behaviour  in  this 
place  we  shall  both  have  to  render  an  account,  not,  probably, 
to  men,  but,  without  fail,  at  the  bar  of  God.  Come  this  way." 
So  saying,  he  rose:  Renzo  followed  his  example;  and,  with- 
out neglecting  to  listen  to  his  words,  had,  in  the  mean  time, 
determined  in  himself  not  to  speak,  as  he  had  at  first  intended, 
about  Lucia's  vow. — If  he  hears  this,  too — thought  he — he 
will  certainly  raise  more  difficulties.  Either  I  will  find  her, 
and  then  there  will  be  time  enough  to  discuss  it,  or  ...  .  and 
then!  what  will  it  matter? 

Leading  him  to  the  door  of  the  cabin,  v/hich  faced  toward 
the  north,  the  friar  resumed:  "  Listen  to  me;  Father  Felice, 
the  President  of  the  Lazzeretto,  will  to-day  conduct  the  few 
who  have  recovered  to  perform  their  quarantine  elsewhere. 
You  see  that  church  there  in  the  middle  .  .  .  ."  and  raising 
his  thin  and  tremulous  hand,  he  pointed  out  to  the  left, 
through  the  cloudy  atmosphere,  the  cupola  of  the  little  temple 
rising  above  the  miserable  tents,  and  continued:  "  About  there 
they  are  now  assembled,  to  go  out  in  procession  through  the 
gate  by  which  you  must  have  entered." 

"  Ah!  it  was  for  this,  then,  that  they  were  trying  to  clear 
the  passage." 

"Just  so:  and  you  must  also  have  heard  some  toUings  of 
the  bell." 

"  I  heard  one." 

*'  It  was  the  second :  when  the  third  rings,  they  will  all  be 
assefnbled:  Father  Felice  will  address  a  few  words  to  them; 
and  then  they  will  set  ofif.  At  this  signal,  do  you  go  thither; 
contrive  to  place  yourself  behind  the  assembly  on  the  edge  of 
the  passage,  where,  without  giving  trouble,  or  being  observed, 
you  can  watch  them  pass;  and  look  ....  look  ....  look 
if  she  is  there.  If  it  be  not  God's  will  that  she  should  be 
there,  that  quarter  .  .  .  ."  and  he  again  raised  his  hand,  and 
pointed  to  the  side  of  the  edifice  which  faced  them,  "  that 
quarter  of  the  building,  and  part  of  the  field  before  it,  are 
assigned  to  the  women.  You  will  see  some  paling  that  di- 
vides this  from  that  enclosure,  but  here  and  there  broken  and 
interrupted,  so  that  you'll  find  no  difficulty  in  gaining  ad- 
mittance. Once  in,  if  you  do  nothing  to  give  oflfence,  no  one 
probably  will  say  anything  to  you:  if,  however,  they  should 
make  any  opposition,  say  that  Father  Cristoforo  of  *  *  * 
knows  you,  and  will  answer  for  you.     Seek  her  there;  seek 


THE   BETROTHED 


531 


her  with  confidence  and  ....  with  resignation.  For  you 
must  remember  that  it  is  a  great  thing  you  have  come  to  ask 
here:  a  person  ahve  within  the  Lazzeretto!  Do  you  know 
how  often  I  have  seen  my  poor  people  here  renewed;  how 
many  I  have  seen  carried  ofif!  how  few  go  out  recovered! 
....  Go,  prepared  to  make  a  sacrifice  .  .  .  ." 

**Ay!  I  understand!"  interrupted  Renzo,  his  eyes  roUing 
wildly,  and  his  face  becoming  very  dark  and  threatening;  "  I 
understand!  I'll  go:  I'll  look  in  one  place  or  another,  from 
top  to  bottom  of  the  Lazzeretto  ....  and  if  I  don't  find 
her!  .  .  .  ." 

"  If  you  don't  find  her?  "  said  the  friar,  with  an  air  of  grave 
and  serious  expectation,  and  an  admonishing  look. 

But  Renzo,  whose  anger  had  for  some  time  been  swelling 
in  his  bosom,  and  now  clouded  his  sight,  and  deprived  him  of 
all  feelings  of  respect,  repeated  and  continued:  ''If  I  don't 
find  her,  I'll  succeed  in  finding  somebody  else.  Either  in 
Milan,  or  in  his  detestable  palace,  or  at  the  end  of  the  world, 
or  in  the  abode  of  the  devil,  I'll  find  that  rascal  who  separated 
us;  that  villain,  but  for  whom  Lucia  would  have  been  mine 
twenty  months  ago;  and  if  we  had  been  doomed  to  die,  we 
would  at  least  have  died  together.  If  that  fellow  still  lives, 
I'll  find  him  .  .  .  ." 

"Renzo!"  said  the  friar,  grasping  him  by  one  arm,  and 
gazing  on  him  still  more  severely. 

"  And  if  I  find  him,"  continued  he,  perfectly  blind  with 
rage,  "  if  the  plague  hasn't  already  wrought  justice  .... 
This  is  no  longer  a  time  when  a  coward,  with  his  bravoes  at 
his  heels,  can  drive  people  to  desperation,  and  then  mock  at 
them:  a  time  has  come  when  men  meet  each  other  face  to 
face  ....  I'll  get  justice!  " 

"Miserable  wretch!"  cried  Father  Cristoforo,  in  a  voice 
which  had  assumed  its  former  full  and  sonorous  tone — "  mis- 
erable wretch!"  And  he  raised  his  sunken  head,  his  cheeks 
became  flushed  with  their  original  colour,  and  the  fire  that 
flashed  from  his  eyes  had  something  terrible  in  it.  "  Look 
about  you,  miserable  man !  "  And  while  with  one  hand  he 
grasped,  and  strongly  shook,  Renzo's  arm,  he  waved  the  other 
before  him,  pointing,  as  well  as  he  could,  to  the  mournful 
scene  around  them.  "See  who  is  He  that  chastises!  Who 
is  He  that  judges,  and  is  not  judged!  He  that  scourges,  and 
forgives!  But  you,  a  worm  of  the  earth,  you  would  get  jus- 
tice! You!  do  you  know  what  justice  is?  Away,  unhappy 
man;  away  w^ith  you!  I  hoped  ....  yes,  I  did  hope  that, 
before  my  death,  God  would  have  given  me  the  comfort  of 


532 


MANZONI 


hearing  that  my  poor  Lucia  was  aHve;  perhaps  of  seeing  her, 
and  hearing  her  promise  me  that  she  would  send  one  prayer 
toward  the  grave  where  I  shall  be  laid.  Go,  you  have  robbed 
me  of  this  hope!  God  has  not  let  her  remain  upon  earth  for 
you;  and  you,  surely,  can  not  have  the  hardihood  to  believe 
yourself  worthy  that  God  should  think  of  comforting  you. 
He  will  have  thought  of  her,  for  she  was  one  of  those  souls 
for  whom  eternal  consolation  are  reserved.  Go!  I've  no 
longer  time  to  listen  to  you." 

And  so  saying,  he  threw  from  him  Renzo's  arm,  and 
moved  toward  a  cabin  of  sick. 

*' Ah,  Father!"  said  Renzo,  following  him  with  a  suppli- 
cating air,  "  will  you  send  me  away  in  this  manner?  " 

''What!"  rejoined  the  Capuchin,  relaxing  nothing  of  his 
severity;  "  dare  you  require  that  I  should  steal  the  time  from 
these  poor  afflicted  ones,  who  are  waiting  for  me  to  speak  to 
them  of  the  pardon  of  God,  to  listen  to  your  words  of  fury, 
your  propositions  of  revenge?  I  listened  to  you  when  you 
asked  consolation  and  direction;  I  neglected  one  duty  of 
charity  for  the  sake  of  another;  but  now  you  have  vengeance 
in  your  heart:  what  do  you  want  with  me?  Begone!  I  have 
beheld  those  die  here  who  have  been  offended  and  have  for- 
given ;  offenders  who  have  mourned  that  they  could  not  hum- 
ble themselves  before  the  offended:  I  have  wept  with  both 
one  and  the  other;  but  what  have  I  to  do  with  you?  " 

''Ah!  I  forgive  him!  I  forgive  him,  indeed,  and  for 
ever!"  exclaimed  the  youth. 

"Renzo!"  said  the  friar,  with  more  tranquil  sternness; 
"  bethink  yourself,  and  just  say  how  often  you  have  forgiven 

him." 

And  having  waited  a  moment  without  receiving  a  reply, 
he  suddenly  bent  his  head,  and  with  an  appeased  voice  re- 
sumed: "  You  know  why  I  bear  this  habit?" 

Renzo  hesitated. 

"  You  know  it!  "  resumed  the  old  man. 
__"  I  do,"  answered  Renzo. 

"I  too  have  hated,  and  therefore  I  have  rebuked  you  for  a 
thought,  for  a  word ;  the  man  whom  I  hated,  whom  I  cordially 
^jiated,  whom  I  had  long  hated,  that  man  I  murdered!  " 

"Yes,  but  a  tyrant!  one  of  those  .  .  .  ." 

"  Hush !  "  interrupted  the  friar ;  "  think  you  that  _  if  there 
were  a  good  reason  for  it,  I  shouldn't  have  found  it  in  thirty 
years?  Ah!  if  I  could  now  instil  into  your  heart  the  senti- 
ment I  have  ever  since  had,  and  still  have,  for  the  man  I 
hated!     If  I  could!     I?     But  God  can;  may  He  do  so!  ...  . 


THE   BETROTHED  533 

Listen,  Renzo;  He  wishes  you  more  good  than  you  even 
wish  yourself:  you  have  dared  to  meditate  revenge;  but  He 
has  power  and  mercy  enough  to  prevent  you;  He  bestows 
upon  you  a  favour  of  which  another  was  too  unworthy.  You 
know,  and  you  have  often  and  often  said  it,  that  He  can 
arrest  the  hand  of  the  oppressor:  but,  remember,  He  can  also 
arrest  that  of  the  revengeful ;  and  think  you  that,  because  you 
are  poor,  because  you  are  injured.  He  can  not  defend  against 
your  vengeance  a  man  whom  He  has  created  in  His  own 
image?  Did  you  think  that  He  would  suffer  you  to  do  all 
you  wished?  No!  but  do  you  know  what  He  can  do?  You 
may  hate  and  be  lost  for  ever;  you  may,  by  such  a  temper 
of  mind  as  this,  deprive  yourself  of  every  blessing.  For,  how- 
ever things  may  go  with  you,  whatever  condition  you  may  be 
placed  in,  rest  assured  that  all  will  be  punishment  until  you 
have  forgiven — forgiven  in  such  a  way,  that  you  may  never 
again  be  able  to  say,  I  forgive  him." 

**  Yes,  yes,"  said  Renzo,  with  deep  shame  and  emotion; 
*' I  see  now  that  I  have  never  before  really  forgiven  him;  I 
see  that  I  have  spoken  like  a  beast,  and  not  like  a  Christian: 
and  now,  by  the  grace  of  God,  I  will  forgive  him;  yes,  I'll 
forgive  him  from  my  very  heart." 

"  And  supposing  you  were  to  see  him?" 

"  I  would  pray  the  Lord  to  give  me  patience,  and  to  touch 
his  heart." 

"  Would  you  remember  that  the  Lord  has  not  only  com- 
manded us  to  forgive  our  enemies,  but  also  to  love  them? 
Would  you  remember  that  He  so  loved  him  as  to  lay  down 
His  life  for  him?" 

"  Yes,  by  His  help,  I  would." 

"  Well,  then,  come  and  see  him.  You  have  said,  '  I'll  find 
him;'  and  you  shall  find  him.  Come,  and  you  shall  see 
against  whom  you  would  nourish  hatred ;  to  whom  you  would 
wish  evil,  and  be  ready  to  do  it;  of  what  life  you  would  ren- 
der yourself  master!  " 

And  taking  Renzo's  hand,  which  he  grasped  as  a  healthy 
young  man  would  have  done,  he  moved  forward.  Renzo 
followed,  without  daring  to  ask  anything  further. 

After  a  short  walk,  the  friar  stopped  near  the  entrance  of 
a  cabin,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Renzo's  face  with  a  mixture  of  grav- 
ity and  tenderness,  and  drew  him  in. 

The  first  thing  he  observed  on  entering,  was  a  sick  per- 
son, seated  on  some  straw,  in  the  background,  who  did  not, 
however,  seem  very  ill,  but  rather  recovering  from  illness. 
On  seeing  the  Father,  he  shook  his  head,  as  if  to  say  No:  the 


534 


MANZONI 


Father  bent  his  with  an  air  of  sorrow  and  resignation.  Ren- 
zo,  meanwhile,  eyeing  the  surrounding  objects  with  uneasy 
curiosity,  beheld  three  or  four  sick  persons,  and  distinguished 
one  against  the  wall,  lying  upon  a  bed,  and  wrapped  in  a  sheet, 
with  a  nobleman's  cloak  laid  upon  him  as  a  quilt:  he  gazed 
at  him,  recognized  Don  Rodrigo,  and  involuntarily  shrank 
back;  but  the  friar,  again  making  him  feel  the  hand  by  which 
he  held  him,  drew  him  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  stretching 
over  it  his  other  hand,  pointed  to  the  man  who  there  lay  pros- 
trate. The  unhappy  being  was  perfectly  motionless;  his  eyes 
were  open,  but  he  saw  nothing;  his  face  was  pale  and  cov- 
ered with  black  spots;  his  lips  black  and  swollen;  it  would 
have  been  called  the  face  of  a  corpse,  had  not  convulsive 
twitchings  revealed  a  tenacity  of  life.  His  bosom  heaved  from 
ti'me  to  time  with  painfully  short  respiration;  and  his  right 
hand,  laid  outside  the  cloak,  pressed  it  closely  to  his  heart 
with  a  firm  grasp  of  his  clenched  fingers,  which  were  of  a 
livid  colour,  and  black  at  the  extremities. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  friar,  in  a  low  and  solemn  voice. 
"  This  may  be  a  punishment,  or  it  may  be  mercy.  The  dis- 
positions you  now  have  toward  this  man,  who  certainly  has 
offended  you,  that  disposition  will  God,  whom  assuredly  you 
have  offended,  have  toward  you  at  the  great  day.  Bless  him, 
and  be  blessed.  For  four  days  has  he  lain  there,  as  you  see 
him,  without  giving  any  signs  of  consciousness.  Perhaps  the 
Lord  is  ready  to  grant  him  an  hour  of  repentance,  but  waits 
for  you  to  ask  it:  perhaps  it  is  His  will  that  you  should  pray 
for  it  with  that  innocent  creature;  perhaps  he  reserves  the 
mercy  for  your  solitary  prayer,  the  prayer  of  an  afflicted  and 
resigned  heart.  Perhaps  the  salvation  of  this  man  and  your 
own  depend  at  this  moment  upon  yourself,  upon  the  disposi- 
tion of  your  mind  to  forgiveness,  to  compassion  ....  to 
love!"  He  ceased;  and  joining  his  hands,  bent  his  head 
over  them  both,  as  if  in  prayer.     Renzo  did  the  same. 

They  had  been  for  a  few  moments  in  this  position,  when 
they  heard  the  third  tolling  of  the  bell.  Both  moved  together, 
as  if  by  agreement,  and  went  out.  The  one  made  no  inquiries, 
the  other  no  protestations:  their  countenances  spoke. 

"  Go  now,"  resumed  the  friar,  "  go  prepared  to  make  a 
sacrifice,  and  to  bless  God,  whatever  be  the  issue  of  your  re- 
searches. And,  whatever  it  be,  come  and  give  me  an  account 
of  it:  we  will  praise  Him  together." 

Here,  without  further  words,  they  parted;  the  one  re- 
turned to  the  place  he  had  left,  the  other  set  ofif  to  the  little 
temple,  which  was  scarcely  more  than  a  stone's  throw  distant. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

WHO  would  ever  have  told  Renzo,  a  few  hours  before, 
that,  in  the  very  crisis  of  his  search,  at  the  approach 
of  the  moment  of  greatest  suspense  which  was  so 
soon  to  be  decisive,  his  heart  would  have  been  di- 
vided between  Lucia  and  Don  Rodrigo?  Yet  so  it  was;  that 
figure  he  had  just  beheld,  came  and  mingled  itself  in  all  the 
dear  or  terrible  pictures  which  either  hope  or  fear  alternately 
brought  before  him  in  the  course  of  his  walk;  the  words  he 
had  heard  at  the  foot  of  that  bed  blended  themselves  with  the 
conflicting  thoughts  by  which  his  mind  was  agitated,  and  he 
could  not  conclude  a  prayer  for  the  happy  issue  of  this  great 
experiment,  without  connecting  with  it  that  which  he  had 
begun  there,  and  which  the  sound  of  the  bell  had  abruptly 
terminated. 

The  small  octagonal  temple,  which  stood  elevated  from  the 
ground  by  several  steps,  in  the  middle  of  the  Lazzeretto,  was, 
in  its  original  construction,  open  on  every  side,  without  other 
support  than  pilasters  and  columns — a  perforated  building, 
so  to  say.  In  each  front  was  an  arch  between  two  columns; 
within,  a  portico  ran  round  that  might  more  properly  be 
called  the  church,  but  which  was  composed  only  of  eight 
arches  supported  by  pilasters,  surmounted  by  a  small  cupola, 
and  corresponding  to  those  on  the  outside  of  the  arcade;  so 
that  the  altar,  erected  in  the  centre,  might  be  seen  from  the 
window  of  each  room  in  the  enclosure,  and  almost  from  any 
part  of  the  encampment.  Now,  the  edifice  being  converted 
to  quite  a  different  use,  the  spaces  of  the  eight  fronts  are 
walled  up;  but  the  ancient  framework,  which  still  remains 
uninjured,  indicates  with  sufficient  clearness  the  original  con- 
dition and  estimation  of  the  building. 

Renzo  had  scarcely  started,  when  Father  Felice  made  his 
appearance  in  the  portico  of  the  temple,  and  advanced  toward 
the  arch  in  the  middle  of  the  side  which  faces  the  city,  in 
front  of  which  the  assembly  were  arranged  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  and  along  the  course  prepared  for  them;  and  shortly 

535 


53^ 


MANZONI 


he  perceived  by  his  manner  that  he  had  begun  the  sermon. 
He  therefore  went  round  by  some  Httle  by-paths,  so  as  to 
attain  the  rear  of  the  audience,  as  had  been  suggested  to  him. 
Arrived  there,  he  stood  still  very  quietly,  and  ran  over  the 
whole  with  his  eye;  but  he  could  see  nothing  from  his  posi- 
tion, except  a  mass,  I  had  almost  said,  a  pavement  of  heads. 
In  the  centre  there  were  some  covered  with  handkerchiefs, 
or  veils;  and  here  he  fixed  his  eyes  more  attentively;  but, 
failing  to  distinguish  anything  more  clearly,  he  also  raised 
them  to  where  all  the  others  were  directed.  He  was  touched 
and  afifected  by  the  venerable  figure  of  the  speaker;  and,  with 
all  the  attention  he  could  command  in  such  a  moment  of  ex- 
pectation, listened  to  the  following  portion  of  his  solemn  ad- 
dress : — 

''  Let  us  remember  for  a  moment  the  thousands  and  thou- 
sands who  have  gone  forth  thither;"  and  raising  his  finger 
above  his  shoulder,  he  pointed  behind  him  toward  the  gate 
which  led  to  the  cemetery  of  San  Gregorio,  the  whole  of  which 
was  then,  we  might  say,  one  immense  grave;  "  let  us  cast  an 
eye  around  upon  the  thousands  and  thousands  who  are  still 
left  here,  uncertain,  alas!  by  which  way  they  will  go  forth; 
let  us  look  at  ourselves,  so  few  in  number,  who  are  about  to 
go  forth  restored.  Blessed  be  the  Lord!  Blessed  he  He  in 
His  justice,  blessed  in  His  mercy!  blessed  in  death,  and 
blessed  in  life!  blessed  in  the  choice  He  has  been  pleased  to 
make  of  us!  Oh!  why  has  He  so  pleased,  my  brethren,  if 
not  to  preserve  to  Himself  a  little  remnant,  corrected  by  afflic- 
tion, and  warmed  with  gratitude?  if  not  in  order  that,  feeling 
more  vividly  than  ever  how  life  is  His  gift,  we  may  esteem 
it  as  a  gift  from  His  hands  deserves,  and  employ  it  in  such 
works  as  we  may  dare  to  of¥er  Him?  if  not  in  order  that  the 
remembrance  of  our  own  sufferings  may  make  us  compas- 
sionate toward  others,  and  ever  ready  to  relieve  them?  In 
the  mean  while,  let  those  in  whose  company  we  have  suffered, 
hoped,  and  feared;  among  whom  we  are  leaving  friends  and 
relatives,  and  who  are  all,  besides,  our  brethren;  let  those 
among  them  who  will  see  us  pass  through  the  midst  of 
them  not  only  derive  some  relief  from  the  thought  that 
others  are  going  out  hence  in  health,  but  also  be  edified 
by  our  behaviour.  God  forbid  that  they  should  behold  in  us 
a  clamorous  festivity,  a  carnal  joy,  at  having  escaped  that 
death  against  which  they  are  still  struggling.  Let  them  see 
that  we  depart  in  thanksgivings  for  ourselves  and  prayers  for 
them;  and  let  them  be  able  to  say,  '  Even  beyond  these  walls 
they  will  not  forget  us,  they  will  continue  to  pray  for  us  poor 


THE   BETROTHED 


537 


creatures! '  Let  us  begin  from  this  time,  from  the  first  steps 
we  are  about  to  take,  a  Hfe  wholly  made  up  of  love.  Let  those 
who  have  regained  their  former  vigour  lend  a  brotherly  arm 
to  the  feeble;  young  men,  sustain  the  aged;  you  who  are 
left  without  children,  look  around  you  how  many  children 
are  left  without  parents!  be  such  to  them!  And  this  charity, 
covering  the  multitude  of  sins,  will  also  alleviate  your  own 
sorrows.'* 

Here  a  deep  murmur  of  groans  and  sobs,  which  had  been 
increasing  in  the  assembly,  was  suddenly  suspended,  on  seeing 
the  preacher  put  a  rope  round  his  neck,  and  fall  upon  his 
knees;  and,  in  profound  silence,  they  stood  awaiting  what 
he  was  about  to  say. 

"  For  me,"  continued  he,  "  and  the  rest  of  my  companions 
who,  without  any  merit  of  our  own,  have  been  chosen  out  for 
the  high  privilege  of  serving  Christ  in  you,  I  humbly  im- 
plore your  forgiveness,  if  we  have  not  worthily  fulfilled  so 
great  a  ministry.  If  slothfulness,  if  the  ungovernableness  of 
the  flesh,  has  rendered  us  less  attentive  to  your  necessities, 
less  ready  to  answer  your  calls;  if  unjust  impatience,  or  blame- 
worthy weariness,  has  sometimes  made  us  show  you  a  severe 
and  dispirited  countenance;  if  the  miserable  thought  that  we 
were  necessary  to  you,  has  sometimes  induced  us  to  fail  in 
treating  you  with  that  humility  which  became  us ;  if  our  frailty 
has  led  us  hastily  to  commit  any  action  which  has  been  a 
cause  of  offence  to  you;  forgive  us!  And  so  may  God  for- 
give you  all  your  trespasses,  and  bless  you."  Then,  making 
the  sign  of  a  large  cross  over  the  assembly,  he  rose. 

We  have  succeeded  in  relating,  if  not  the  actual  words,  at 
least  the  sense  and  burden  of  those  which  he  really  uttered; 
but  the  manner  in  which  they  were  delivered  it  is  impossible 
to  describe.  It  was  the  manner  of  one  who  called  it  a  privi- 
lege to  attend  upon  the  infected,  because  he  felt  it  to  be  so; 
who  confessed  he  had  not  worthily  acted  up  to  it,  because  he 
was  conscious  he  had  not  done  so;  who  besought  forgiveness, 
because  he  was  convinced  he  stood  in  need  of  it.  But  the 
people  who  had  beheld  these  Capuchins  as  they  went  about, 
engaged  in  nothing  but  waiting  upon  them;  who  had  seen  so 
many  sink  under  the  duty,  and  him  who  was  now  addressing 
them  ever  the  foremost  in  toil,  as  in  authority,  except,  indeed, 
when  he  himself  was  lying  at  the  point  of  death;  think  with 
what  sighs  and  tears  they  responded  to  such  an  appeal.  The 
admirable  friar  then  took  a  large  cross  which  stood  resting 
against  a  pillar,  elevated  it  before  him,  left  his  sandals  at  the 
edge  of  the  outside  portico,  and,  through  the  midst  of  the 


538 


MANZONI 


crowd,  which  reverently  made  way  for  him,  proceeded  to 
place  himself  at  their  head. 

Renzo,  no  less  afifected  than  if  he  had  been  one  of  those 
from  whom  this  singular  forgiveness  was  requested,  also  with- 
drew a  little  further,  and  succeeded  in  placing  himself  by  the 
side  of  a  cabin.  Here  he  stood  waiting,  with  his  body  half 
concealed  and  his  head  stretched  forward,  his  eyes  wide  open, 
and  his  heart  beating  violently,  but  at  the  same  time  with  a 
kind  of  new  and  particular  confidence,  arising,  I  think,  from 
the  tenderness  of  spirit  which  the  sermon  and  the  spectacle 
of  the  general  emotion  had  excited  in  him. 

Father  Felice  now  came  up,  barefoot,  with  the  rope  round 
his  neck,  and  that  tall  and  heavy  cross  elevated  before  him; 
his  face  was  pale  and  haggard,  inspiring  both  sorrow  and 
encouragement;  he  walked  with  slow  but  resolute  steps,  like 
one  who  would  spare  the  weakness  of  others;  and  in  every- 
thing was  like  a  man  to  whom  these  supernumerary  labours 
and  troubles  imparted  strength  to  sustain  those  which  were  ne- 
cessary, and  inseparable  from  his  charge.  Immediately  behind 
him  came  the  taller  children,  barefooted  for  the  most  part, 
very  few  entirely  clothed,  and  some  actually  in  their  shirts. 
Then  came  the  women,  almost  every  one  leading  a  little  child 
by  the  hand,  and  alternately  chanting  the  Miserere;  while 
the  feebleness  of  their  voices,  and  the  paleness  and  languor  of 
their  countenances,  were  enough  to  fill  the  heart  of  any  one 
with  pity  who  chanced  to  be  there  as  a  mere  spectator.  But 
Renzo  was  gazing  and  examining,  from  rank  to  rank,  from 
face  to  face,  without  passing  over  one;  for  v/hich  the  ex- 
tremely slow  advance  of  the  procession  gave  him  abundant 
leisure.  On  and  on  it  goes;  he  looks  and  looks,  always  to 
no  purpose;  he  keeps  glancing  rapidly  over  the  crowd  which 
still  remains  behind,  and  which  is  gradually  diminishing:  now 
there  are  very  few  rows ; — we  are  at  the  last ; — all  are  gone  by ; 
— all  were  unknown  faces.  With  drooping  arms,  and  head  re- 
clining on  one  shoulder,  he  suffered  his  eye  still  to  wander 
after  that  little  band,  while  that  of  the  men  passed  before  him. 
His  attention  was  again  arrested,  and  a  new  hope  arose  in  his 
mind,  on  seeing  some  carts  appear  behind  these,  bearing  those 
convalescents  who  were  not  yet  able  to  walk.  Here  the 
women  came  last;  and  the  train  proceeded  at  so  deliberate  a 
pace,  that  Renzo  could  with  equal  ease  review  all  these  with- 
out one  escaping  his  scrutiny.  But  what  then?  he  examined 
the  first  cart,  the  second,  the  third,  and  so  on,  one  by  one, 
always  with  the  same  result,  up  to  the  last,  behind  which  fol- 
lowed a  solitary  Capuchin,  with  a  grave  countenance,  and  a 


THE   BETROTHED 


539 


Stick  in  his  hand,  as  the  regulator  of  the  cavalcade.  It  was 
that  Father  Michele  whom  we  have  mentioned  as  being  ap- 
pointed coadjutor  in  the  government  with  Father  Felice. 

Thus  was  the  soothing  hope  completely  dissipated;  and, 
as  it  was  dissipated,  it  not  only  carried  away  the  comfort  it 
had  brought  along  with  it,  but,  as  is  generally  the  case,  left 
him  in  a  worse  condition  than  before.  Now  the  happiest  al- 
ternative was  to  find  Lucia  ill.  Yet,  while  increasing  fears 
took  the  place  of  the  ardour  of  present  hope,  he  clung  with 
all  the  powers  of  his  mind  to  this  melancholy  and  fragile 
thread;  and  issuing  into  the  road,  pursued  his  way  toward 
the  place  the  procession  had  just  left.  On  reaching  the  foot  of 
the  little  temple,  he  went  and  knelt  down  upon  the  lowest  step, 
and  there  poured  forth  a  prayer  to  God,  or  rather  a  crowd 
of  unconnected  expressions,  broken  sentences,  ejaculations, 
entreaties,  complaints,  and  promises;  one  of  those  addresses 
which  are  never  made  to  men,  because  they  have  not  suffi- 
cient quickness  to  understand  them,  nor  patience  to  listen  to 
them;  they  are  not  great  enough  to  feel  compassion  without 
contempt. 

He  rose  somewhat  more  reanimated;  went  round  the  tem- 
ple, came  into  the  other  road  which  he  had  not  before  seen, 
and  which  led  to  the  opposite  gate,  and  after  going  on  a  little 
way,  saw  on  both  sides  the  pahng  the  friar  had  told  him  of, 
but  full  of  breaks  and  gaps,  exactly  as  he  had  said.  He  en- 
tered through  one  of  these,  and  found  himself  in  the  quarter 
assigned  to  the  women.  Almost  at  the  first  step  he  took,  he 
saw  lying  on  the  ground  a  little  bell,  such  as  the  monatti  wore 
upon  their  feet,  quite  perfect,  with  all  its  straps  and  buckles; 
and  it  immediately  struck  him  that  perhaps  such  an  instru- 
ment might  serve  him  as  a  passport  in  that  place.  He  there- 
fore picked  it  up,  and,  looking  round  to  see  if  any  one  were 
watching  him,  buckled  it  on.  He  then  set  himself  to  his  search, 
to  that  search,  which,  were  it  only  for  the  multiplicity  of  the 
objects,  would  have  been  extremely  w^earisome,  even  had  those 
objects  been  anything  but  what  they  were.  He  began  to  sur- 
vey, or  rather  to  contemplate,  new  scenes  of  suffering,  in  part 
so  similar  to  those  he  had  already  witnessed,  in  part  so  dissimi- 
lar: for,  under  the  same  calamity,  there  was  here  a  dififerent 
kind  of  sufifering,  so  to  say,  a  dififerent  languor,  a  dififerent 
complaining,  a  dififerent  endurance,  a  dififerent  kind  of  mutual 
pity  and  assistance;  there  was,  too,  in  the  spectator,  another 
kind  of  compassion,  so  to  say,  and  another  feeling  of  horror. 
He  had  now  gone  I  know  not  how  far,  without  success  and 
without  accidents,  when  he  heard  behind  him  a  "  Hev!  " — a 


540 


MANZONI 


call,  which  seemed  to  be  addressed  to  him.  He  turned  round, 
and  saw  at  a  little  distance  a  commissary,  who,  with  uplifted 
hand,  was  beckoning  to  none  other  but  him,  and  crying, 
"  There,  in  those  rooms,  you're  wanted:  here  we've  only  just 
finished  clearing  away." 

Renzo  immediately  perceived  whom  he  was  taken  for,  and 
that  the  little  bell  was  the  cause  of  the  mistake;  he  called  him 
self  a  great  fool  for  having  thought  only  of  the  inconveniences 
which  this  token  might  enable  him  to  avoid,  and  not  of  those 
which  it  might  draw  down  upon  him;  and  at  the  same  instant 
devised  a  plan  to  free  himself  from  the  difficulty.  He  repeat- 
edly nodded  to  him  in  a  hurried  manner,  as  if  to  say  that  he 
understood  and  would  obey;  and  then  got  out  of  his  sight  by 
slipping  aside  between  the  cabins. 

When  he  thought  himself  far  enough  off,  he  began  to 
think  about  dismissing  this  cause  of  offence;  and  to  perform 
the  operation  without  being  observed,  he  stationed  himself  in 
the  narrow  passage  between  two  little  huts,  which  had  their 
backs  turned  to  each  other.  Stooping  down  to  unloose  the 
buckles,  and  in  this  position  resting  his  head  against  the  straw 
wall  of  one  of  the  cabins,  a  voice  reached  his  ear  from  it  ...  . 
Oh  Heavens!  is  it  possible?  His  whole  soul  was  in  that  ear; 
he  held  his  breath  ....  Yes,  indeed!  it  is  that  voice!  .  .  .  . 
'*  Fear  of  what?"  said  that  gentle  voice;  ''we  have  passed 
through  much  worse  than  a  storm.  He  who  has  preserved 
us  hitherto,  will  preserve  us  even  now." 

If  Renzo  uttered  no  cry,  it  was  not  for  fear  of  being  dis- 
covered, but  because  he  had  no  breath  to  utter  it.  His  knees 
failed  beneath  him,  his  sight  became  dim;  but  it  was  only  for 
the  first  moment;  at  the  second  he  was  on  his  feet,  more  alert, 
more  vigorous  than  ever;  in  three  bounds  he  was  round  the 
cabin,  stood  at  the  doorway,  saw  her  who  had  been  speaking, 
saw  her  standing  by  a  bedside,  and  bending  over  it.  She 
turned  on  hearing  a  noise;  looked,  fancied  she  mistook  the 
object,  looked  again  more  fixedly,  and  exclaimed:  "Oh, 
blessed  Lord!  " 

"  Lucia!  I've  found  you!  I've  found  you!  It's  really  you! 
You're  living!  "  exclaimed  Renzo,  advancing  toward  her,  all 
in  a  tremble. 

"Oh,  blessed  Lord!"  replied  Lucia,  trembling  far  more 
violently.  "You?  What  is  this?  What  way?  Why?  The 
plague!  " 

"I've  had  it.     And  you!  .  .  .  ." 

"Ah!  and  I  too.     And  about  my  mother?  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  haven't  seen  her,  for  she's  at  Pasturo;  I  believe,  how- 


THE   BETROTHED  541 

ever,  she's  very  well.  But  you  ....  how  pale  you  still  are! 
how  weak  you  seem!  You're  recovered,  however,  aren't 
you?" 

''  The  Lord  has  been  pleased  to  give  me  a  little  longer  be- 
low.    Ah,  Renzo!  why  are  you  here?" 

"  Why?"  said  Renzo,  drawing  all  the  time  nearer  to  her; 
"do  you  ask  why?  Why  I  should  come  here!  Need  I  say 
why?  Who  is  there  I  ought  to  think  about?  Am  I  no 
longer  Renzo?     Are  you  no  longer  Lucia?" 

''  Ah,  what  are  you  saying!  What  are  you  saying!  Didn't 
my  mother  write  to  you?  .  .  .  ." 

"  Ay :  that  indeed  she  did !  Fine  things  to  write  to  an 
unfortunate,  afflicted,  fugitive  wretch — to  a  young  fellow  who 
has  never  offered  you  a  single  affront,  at  least!  " 

**  But  Renzo!  Renzo!  since  you  knew  ....  why  come? 
why?  " 

"Why  come?  Oh  Lucia!  Why  come,  do  you  say? 
After  so  many  promises!  Are  we  no  longer  ourselves?  Don't 
you  any  longer  remember?     What  is  wanting?" 

"Oh  Lord!"  exclaimed  Lucia,  piteously,  clasping  her 
hands,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven,  "  why  hast  Thou  not 
granted  me  the  mercy  of  taking  me  to  Thyself!  ....  Oh 
Renzo,  whatever  have  you  done?  See;  I  was  beginning  to 
hope  that  ....  in  time  ....  you  would  have  forgotten 
me  .  .  .  ." 

"A  fine  hope,  indeed!  Fine  things  to  tell  me  to  my 
face!" 

"Ah,  what  have  you  done?  and  in  this  place!  among  all 
this  misery !  among  these  sights !  here,  where  they  do  nothing 
but  die,  you  have!  .  .  ." 

"  We  must  pray  God  for  those  who  die,  and  hope  that 
they  will  go  to  a  good  place;  but  it  isn't  surely  fair,  even  for 
this  reason,  that  they  who  live  should  live  in  despair  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  Renzo!  Renzo!  you  don't  think  what  you're  saying. 
A  promise  to  the  Madonna! — a  vow!  " 

"  And  I  tell  you  they  are  promises  that  go  for  nothing." 

"  Oh  Lord!  What  do  you  say?  where  have  you  been  all 
this  time?  whom  have  you  mixed  with?  how  are  you  talk- 
ing?  " 

"  Fm  talking  like  a  good  Christian;  and  I  think  better  of 
the  Madonna  than  you  do;  for  I  believe  she  doesn't  wish  for 
promises  that  injure  one's  fellow-creatures.  If  the  Madonna 
had  spoken,  then,  indeed!  But  what  has  happened?  a  mere 
fancy  of  your  own.  Don't  you  know  what  you  ought  to 
promise  the  Madonna?  promise  her  that  the  first  daughter 


542 


MANZONI 


we  have,  we'll  call  her  Maria;  for  that  I'm  willing  to  promise 
too:  there  are  things  that  do  much  more  honour  to  the  Ma- 
donna; these  are  devotions  that  have  some  use  in  them,  and 
do  no  harm  to  any  one." 

"  No,  no;  don't  say  so:  you  don't  know  what  you  are  say- 
ing; you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  make  a  vow;  you've  never 
been  in  such  circumstances;  you  haven't  tried.  Leave  me, 
leave  me,  for  Heaven's  sake!  " 

And  she  impetuously  rushed  from  him,  and  returned  to- 
ward the  bed. 

*'  Lucia!  "  said  he,  without  stirring,  "  just  tell  me  this  one 
thing:  if  there  was  not  this  reason  .  .  .  would  you  be  the 
same  to  me  as  ever?  " 

"  Heartless  man!  "  replied  Lucia,  turning  round,  and  with 
difficulty  restraining  her  tears:  "when  you've  made  me  say 
what's  quite  useless,  what  would  do  me  harm,  and  what,  per- 
haps, would  be  sinful,  will  you  be  content  then?  Go  away — 
oh,  do  go!  think  no  more  of  me;  we  were  not  intended  for 
each  other.  We  shall  meet  again  above;  now  we  can  not 
have  much  longer  to  stay  in  this  world.  Ah,  go!  try  to  let 
my  mother  know  that  I'm  recovered;  that  here,  too,  God  has 
always  helped  me:  and  that  I've  found  a  kind  creature,  this 
good  lady,  who's  like  a  mother  to  me;  tell  her  I  hope  she  will 
be  preserved  from  this  disease,  and  that  we  shall  see  each 
other  again,  when  and  how  God  pleases.  Go  away,  for  Heav- 
en's sake,  and  think  no  more  about  me  .  .  .  except  when  you 
say  your  prayers." 

And,  like  one  who  has  nothing  more  to  say,  and  wishes 
to  hear  nothing  further — like  one  who  would  withdraw  herself 
from  danger,  she  again  retreated  closer  to  the  bed  where  lay 
the  lady  she  had  mentioned. 

**  Listen,  Lucia,  listen,"  said  Renzo,  without,  however,  at- 
tempting to  go  any  nearer. 

''No,  no;  go  away,  for  charity's  sake!" 

"Listen:  Father  Cristoforo  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  He's  here." 

"Here!     Where?     How  do  you  know?" 

"  I've  spoken  to  him  a  little  while  ago;  I've  been  with  him 
for  a  short  time:  and  a  religious  man  like  him,  it  seems  to 
me  .  .  . 

"He's  here!  to  assist  the  poor  sick,  I  dare  say.  But  he? 
has  he  had  the  plague?  " 

"Ah  Lucia!  I'm  afraid,  I'm  sadly  afraid  .  .  ."  And 
while   Renzo  was  thus   hesitating  to   pronounce   the   words 


THE   BETROTHED 


543 


which  were  so  distressing  to  himself,  and  he  felt  must  be 
equally  so  to  Lucia,  she  had  again  left  the  bedside,  and  was 
once  more  drawing  near  him,  "  I'm  afraid  he  has  it  now!  " 

"  Oh,  the  poor  holy  man!  But  why  do  I  say,  Poor  man? 
Poor  me!     How  is  he?  is  he  in  bed?  is  he  attended? " 

"  He's  up,  going  about,  and  attending  upon  others;  but 
if  you  could  see  his  looks,  and  how  he  totters!  One  sees 
so  manv,  that  it's  too  easy  ....  to  be  sure  there's  no  mis- 
take!"' 

"  Oh,  and  he's  here  indeed." 

"  Yes,  and  only  a  little  way  ofT;  very  little  further  than  from 
your  house  to  mine  ....  if  you  remember!  .  .  ." 

''  Oh,  most  holy  Virgin!  "  ' 

'''  Well,  very  little  further.  You  may  think  whether  we 
didn't  talk  about  you.  He  said  things  to  me  ....  And  if 
you  knew  what  he  showed  me!  You  shall  hear;  but  now  I 
want  to  tell  you  what  he  said  to  me  first,  he,  with  his  own  lips. 
He  told  me  I  did  right  to  come  and  look  for  you,  and  that 
the  Lord  approves  of  a  youth's  acting  so,  and  would  help 
me  to  find  you;  which  has  really  been  the  truth:  but  surely 
he's  a  saint.     So,  you  see!  " 

'''  But  if  he  said  so,  it  was  because  he  didn't  know  a 
word  .  .  ." 

''  What  would  you  have  him  know  about  things  you've 
done  out  of  your  own  head,  without  rule,  and  without  the 
advice  of  any  one?  A  good  man,  a  man  of  judgment,  as  he 
is,  would  never  think  of  things  of  this  kind.  But  oh,  what 
he  showed  me!  .  .  ."  And  here  he  related  his  visit  to  the 
cabin;  while  Lucia,  however  her  senses  and  her  mind  must 
have  been  accustomed,  in  that  abode,  to  the  strongest  impres- 
sions, was  completely  overwhelmed  with  horror  and  com- 
passion. 

''  And  there,  too,"  pursued  Renzo,  ''  he  spoke  like  a  saint; 
he  said  that  perhaps  the  Lord  has  designed  to  show  mercy 
to  that  poor  fellow  .  .  .  (now  I  really  can  not  give  him  any 
other  name)  .  .  .  and  waits  to  take  him  at  the  right  moment; 
but  wishes  that  we  should  pray  for  him  together  ....  To- 
gether! did  you  hear?" 

"  Yes,  yes;  we  will  pray  for  him,  each  of  us  where  the  Lord 
shall  place  us;  He  Vvill  know  how  to  unite  our  prayers." 

"  But  if  I  tell  you  his  very  words !  .  .  ." 

"  But,  Renzo,  he  doesn't  know  .  .  ." 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  when  it  is  a  saint  who  speaks, 
it  is  the  Lord  that  makes  him  speak?  and  that  he  wouldn't 
have  spoken  thus,  if  it  shouldn't  really  be  so  .  .  .  And  this 


544 


MANZONI 


poor  fellow's  soul!  I  have  indeed  prayed,  and  will  still  pray, 
for  him;  I've  prayed  from  my  heart,  just  as  if  it  had  been 
for  a  brother  of  mine.  But  how  do  you  wish  the  poor  crea- 
ture to  be,  in  the  other  world,  if  this  matter  be  not  settled  here 
below,  if  the  evils  he  has  done  be  not  undone?  For,  if  you'll 
return  to  reason,  then  all  will  be  as  at  first;  what  has  been, 
has  been;  he  has  had  his  punishment  here  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  Renzo,  no;  God  would  not  have  us  do  evil  that  He 
may  show  mercy;  leave  Him  to  do  this;  and  for  us,  our  duty 
is  to  pray  for  Him.  If  I  had  died  that  night,  could  not  God, 
then,  have  forgiven  him?  And  if  I've  not  died,  if  I've  been 
delivered  .  .  ." 

"  And  your  mother,  that  poor  Agnese,  who  has  always 
wished  me  well,  and  who  strove  so  to  see  us  husband  and 
wife,  has  she  never  told  you  that  it  was  a  perverted  idea  of 
yours?  She,  who  has  made  you  listen  to  reason,  too,  at  other 
times;  for,  on  certain  subjects,  she  thinks  more  wisely  than 
you  ..." 

"  My  mother!  do  you  think  my  mother  would  advise  me 
to  break  a  vow!  But,  Renzo!  you're  not  in  your  proper 
senses." 

"  Oh,  will  you  have  me  say  so?  You  women  can  not  un- 
derstand these  things.  Father  Cristoforo  told  me  to  go  back 
and  tell  him  whether  I  had  found  you.  I'm  going:  we'll  hear 
what  he  says;  whatever  he  thinks  .  .  ." 

''  Yes,  yes ;  go  to  that  holy  man ;  tell  him  that  I  pray  for 
him,  and  ask  him  to  do  so  for  me,  for  I  need  it  so  much,  so 
very  much!  But  for  Heaven's  sake,  for  your  own  soul's 
sake,  and  mine,  never  come  back  here,  to  do  me  harm,  to 
.  .  .  tempt  me.  Father  Cristoforo  will  know  how  to  explain 
things  to  you,  and  bring  you  to  your  proper  senses;  he  will 
make  you  set  your  heart  at  rest." 

*' My  heart' at  rest!  Oh,  you  may  drive  this  idea  out  of 
your  head.  You've  already  had  those  abominable  words 
written  to  me;  and  I  know  what  I've  suffered  from  them; 
and  now  you've  the  heart  to  say  so  to  me.  I  tell  you  plainly 
and  flatly  that  I'll  never  set  my  heart  at  rest.  You  want  to 
forget  me;  but  I  don't  want  to  forget  you.  And  I  assure  you 
— do  you  hear? — that  if  you  make  me  lose  my  senses,  I  shall 
never  get  them  again.  Away  with  my  business,  away  with 
o-ood  rules.  Will  you  condemn  me  to  be  a  madman  all  my 
life?  and  like  a  madman  I  shall  be  ...  .  And  that  poor  fel- 
low! The  Lord  knows  whether  I've- not  forgiven  him  from 
my  heart;  but  you  ....  Will  you  make  me  think,  for  the 
rest  of  my  life,  that  if  he  had  not?  .  .  .  Lucia,  you  have  bid 


THE   BETROTHED 


545 


me  forget  you:  forget  you!  How  can  I?  Whom  do  you 
think  I  have  thought  about  all  this  time?  .  .  .  And  after  so 
many  things!  after  so  many  promises!  What  have  I  done  to 
you  since  we  parted?  Do  you  treat  me  in  this  way  because 
I've  suffered?  because  I've  had  misfortunes?  because  the 
world  has  persecuted  me?  because  I've  spent  so  long  a  time 
from  home,  unhappy,  and  far  from  you?  because  the  first  mo- 
ment I  could,  I  came  to  look  for  you?  " 

When  Lucia  could  sufftciently  command  herself  to  speak, 
she  exclaimed  again,  joining'  her  hands,  and  raising  her  eyes 
to  heaven,  bathed  in  tears :  **  O  most  holy  Virgin,  do  thou 
help  me!  Thou  knowest  that,  since  that  night,  I  have  never 
passed  such  a  moment  as  this.  Thou  didst  succour  me  then; 
O,  succour  me  also  now!" 

**  Yes,  Lucia,  you  do  right  to  invoke  the  Madonna ;  but 
why  will  you  believe  that  she,  who  is  so  kind,  the  mother  of 
mercy,  can  have  pleasure  in  making  us  suffer  ....  me,  at 
any  rate  ....  for  a  word  that  escaped  you  at  a  moment 
when  you  knew  not  what  you  were  saying?  Will  you  be- 
lieve that  she  helped  you  then,  to  bring  us  into  trouble  after- 
ward? ...  If,  after  all,  this  is  only  an  excuse; — if  the  truth 
is,  that  I  have  become  hateful  to  you  .  .  .  tell  me  so  .  .  . 
speak  plainly." 

"  F(5r  pity's  sake,  Renzo,  for  pity's  sake,  for  the  sake  of 
your  poor  dead,  have  done,  have  done,  don't  kill  me  quite! 
.  .  .  .  That  would  not  be  a  good  conclusion.  Go  to  Father 
Cristoforo,  commend  me  to  him;  and  don't  come  back  here, 
don't  come  back  here." 

*'  I  go;  but  you  may  fancy  whether  I  shall  return  or  not! 
I'd  come  back  if  I  was  at  the  end  of  the  world;  that  I  would." 
And  he  disappeared. 

Lucia  went  and  sat  down,   or  rather  suffered  herself  to 
sink  upon  the  ground,  by  the  side  of  the  bed;  and  resting  her 
head  against  it,  continued  to  weep  bitterly.     The  lady,  who 
until  now  had  been  attentively  watching  and  listening,  but 
had  not  spoken  a  word,  asked  what  was  the  meaning  of  this 
apparition,  this  meeting,  these  tears.     But  perhaps  the  reader, 
in  his  turn,  may  ask  who  this  person  was;  we  will  endeavour 
Mko  satisfy  him  in  a  few  words, 
t     She  was  a  wealthy  tradeswoman,  of  about  thirty  years  of 
age.     In  the  course  of  a  few  days  she  had  witnessed  the  death 
of  her  husband,  in  his  own  house,  and  every  one  of  her  chil- 
dren; and  being  herself  attacked  shortly  afterward  with  the 
common  malady,  and  conveyed  to  the  Lazzeretto.  she  had 
been  accommodated  in  this  little  cabin,  at  the  time  that  Lucia, 
35 


546 


MANZONI 


after  having  unconsciously  surmounted  the  virulence  of  the 
disease,  and,  equally  unconsciously,  changed  her  companions 
several  times,  was  beginning  to  recover  and  regain  her  senses, 
which  she  had  lost  since  the  first  commencement  of  her  attack 
in  Don  Ferrante's  house.  The  hut  could  only  contain  two 
patients:  and  an  intimacy  and  affection  had  very  soon  sprung 
up  between  these  associates  in  sickness,  bereavement,  and  de- 
pression, alone  as  they  were  in  the  midst  of  so  great  a  multi- 
tude, such  as  could  scarcely  have  arisen  from  long  intercourse 
under  other  circumstances.  Lucia  was  soon  in  a  condition  to 
lend  her  services  to  her  companion,  who  rapidly  became 
worse.  Now  that  she,  too,  had  passed  the  crisis,  they  served 
as  companions,  encouragement,  and  guards  to  each  other, 
had  made  a  promise  not  to  leave  the  Lazzeretto  except  to- 
gether, and  had,  besides,  concerted  other  measures  to  prevent 
their  separation  after  having  quitted  it. 

The  merchant-woman,  who,  having  left  her  dwelling,  ware- 
house, and  coffers,  all  well  furnished,  under  the  care  of  one  of 
her  brothers,  a  commissioner  of  health,  was  about  to  become 
sole  and  mournful  mistress  of  much  more  than  she  required 
to  live  comfortably,  wished  to  keep  Lucia  with  her,  like  a 
daughter  or  sister;  and  to  this  Lucia  had  acceded,  with  what 
gratitude  to  her  benefactress  and  to  Providence  the  reader 
may  imagine;  but  only  until  she  could  hear  some  tidings  of 
her  mother,  and  learn,  as  she  hoped,  what  was  her  will.  With 
her  usual  reserve,  however,  she  had  never  breathed  a  syllable 
about  her  intended  marriage,  nor  of  her  other  remarkable  ad- 
ventures. But  now,  in  such  agitation  of  feelings,  she  had  at 
least  as  much  need  to  give  vent  to  them,  as  the  other  a  wish 
to  listen  to  them.  And,  clasping  the  right  hand  of  her  friend 
in  both  hers,  she  immediately  began  to  satisfy  her  inquiries, 
without  further  obstacles  than  those  which  her  sobs  presented 
to  the  melancholy  recital. 

Renzo,  meanwhile,  trudged  ofif  in  great  haste  toward  the 
quarters  of  the  good  friar.  With  a  little  care,  and  not  without 
some  steps  thrown  away,  he  at  length  succeeded  in  reaching 
them.  He  found  the  cabin:  its  occupant,  however,  was  not 
there;  but,  rambling  and  peeping  about  in  its  vicinity,  he  dis- 
covered him  in  a  tent,  stooping  toward  the  ground,  or,  in- 
deed, almost  lying  upon  his  face,  administering  consolation 
to  a  dving  person.  He  drew  back,  and  waited  in  silence.  In 
a  few  moments  he  saw  him  close  the  poor  creature's  eyes, 
raise  himself  upon  his  knees,  and  after  a  short  prayer,  get  up. 
He  then  went  forward,  and  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"  Oh!  "  said  the  friar,  on  seeing  him  approach.     "  Well?  " 


THE   BETROTHED 


547 


I 


"  She's  there:  I've  found  her!  " 

*'In  what  state?" 

"  Recovered,  or  at  least  out  of  her  bed." 

"  The  Lord  be  praised!  " 

"  But  .  .  .  ."  said  Renzo,  when  he  came  near  enough  to 
be  able  to  speak  in  an  undertone,  **  there's  another  difficulty." 

'*  What  do  you  mean? " 

"  I  mean  that  ....  You  know^  already  what  a  good  crea- 
ture this  young  girl  is;  but  she's  sometimes  rather  positive  in 
her  opinions.  After  so  many  promises,  after  all  you  know 
of,  now  she  actually  tells  me  she  can't  marry  me,  because  she 
says — how  can  I  express  it? — in  that  night  of  terror,  her  brain 
became  heated — that  is  to  say,  she  made  a  vow  to  the  ]\Ia- 
donna.  Things  without  any  foundation,  aren't  they?  Good 
enough  for  those  who  have  knowledge,  and  grounds  for  doing 
them;  but  for  us  common  people,  that  don't  well  know  what 
we  ought  to  do  ...  .  aren't  they  things  that  won't  hold 
good?" 

''  Is  she  very  far  from  here?  " 

"  Oh,  no:  a  few  yards  beyond  the  church." 

"Wait  here  for  me  a  moment,"  said  the  friar;  ''and  then 
we'll  go  together." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you'll  give  her  to  understand  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,  my  son;  I  must  first  hear  what 
she  has  to  say  to  me." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Renzo ;  and  he  was  left,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  and  his  arms  crossed  on  his  breast,  to 
ruminate  in  still-unallayed  suspense.  The  friar  again  went  in 
search  of  Father  Vittore,  begged  him  once  more  to  supply 
his  place,  went  into  his  cabin,  came  forth  with  a  basket  on  his 
arm,  and  returning  to  his  expectant  companion,  said,  "  Let  us 
go."  He  then  went  forvvard,  leading  the  way  to  that  same 
cabin  which,  a  little  while  before,  they  had  entered  together. 
This  time  he  left  Renzo  outside;  he  himself  entered,  and  re- 
appeared in  a  moment  or  two,  saying:  "  Nothing!  We  must 
pray;  we  must  pray.  Now,"  added  he,  *' you  must  be  my 
guide." 

And  they  set  ofif  without  further  words.  The  weather  had 
been  for  some  time  gradually  becoming  worse,  and  now  plain- 
ly announced  a  not  very  distant  storm.  Frequent  flashes  of 
lightning  broke  in  upon  the  increasing  obscurity,  and  illumi- 
nated with  momentary  brilliancy  the  long,  long  roofs  and 
arches  of  the  porticoes,  the  cupola  of  the  temple,  and  the  more 
humble  roofs  of  the  cabins;  while  the  claps  of  thunder,  burst- 
ing forth  in  sudden  peals,  rolled  rumbling  along  from  one 


548  MANZONI 

quarter  of  the  heavens  to  the  other.  The  young  man  went 
forward  intent  upon  his  way,  and  his  heart  full  of  uneasy  ex- 
pectations, as  he  compelled  himself  to  slacken  his  pace,  to 
accommodate  it  to  the  strength  of  his  follower;  who,  wearied 
by  his  labours,  suffering  under  the  pressure  of  the  malady, 
and  oppressed  by  the  sultry  heat,  walked  on  with  difficulty, 
occasionally  raising  his  pale  face  to  heaven,  as  if  to  seek  for 
freer  respiration. 

When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  little  cabin,  Renzo  stopped, 
turned  round,  and  said  with  a  trembling  voice,  '*  There 
she  is." 

They  enter  ....  "See:  they're  there!"  exclaimed  the 
lady  from  her  bed.  Lucia  turned,  sprang  up  precipitately, 
and  advanced  to  meet  the  aged  man,  crying:  ''  Oh,  whom  do 
I  see?     Oh,  Father  Cristoforo!" 

"Well,  Lucia!  from  how  many  troubles  has  the  Lord  de- 
livered you!  You  must  indeed  rejoice  that  you  have  always 
trusted  in  Him." 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed!  But  you,  Father?  Poor  me,  how  you 
are  altered!     How  are  you?  tell  me,  how  are  you?" 

"  As  God  wills,  and  as,  by  His  grace,  I  will  also,"  replied 
the  friar,  with  a  placid  look.  And  drawing  her  on  one  side, 
he  added:  "Listen:  I  can  only  stay  here  a  few  moments. 
Are  you  inclined  to  confide  in  me,  as  you  have  done  hith- 
erto?" 

"  Oh!  are  you  not  always  my  Father?" 

"  Then,  my  daughter,  what  is  this  vow  that  Renzo  has  been 
telling  me  about?  " 

"  It's  a  vow  that  I  made  to  the  Madonna  not  to  marry.'* 

"  But  did  you  recollect  at  the  time,  that  you  were  already 
bound  by  another  promise?" 

"When  it  related  to  the  Lord  and  the  Madonna!  .  .  .  . 
No;  I  didn't  think  about  it." 

"  My  daughter,  the  Lord  approves  of  sacrifices  and  offer- 
ings when  we  make  them  of  our  own.  It  is  the  heart  that  He 
desires — the  will;  but  you  could  not  offer  him  the  will  of  an- 
other, to  whom  you  had  already  pledged  yourself." 

"  Have  I  done  wrong?  " 

"  No,  my  poor  child,  don't  think  so:  I  believe,  rather,  that 
the  holy  Virgin  will  have  accepted  the  intention  of  your  af- 
flicted heart,  and  have  presented  it  to  God  for  you.  But  tell 
me:  have  vou  never  consulted  with  any  one  on  this  sub- 
ject?" 

"  I  didn't  think  it  was  a  sin  I  ought  to  confess;  and  what 
little  good  one  does,  one  has  no  need  to  tell." 


THE   BETROTHED 


549 


"  Have  you  no  other  motive  that  hinders  you  from  fulfill- 
ing the  promise  you  have  made  to  Renzo?  " 

"  As  to  this  ....  for  me  ....  what  motive?  ....  I 
can  not  say  ....  nothing  else,"  replied  Lucia,  with  a  hesita- 
tion so  expressed  that  it  announced  anything  but  uncertainty 
of  thought;  and  her  cheeks,  still  pale  from  illness,  suddenly 
glowed  with  the  deepest  crimson. 

"  Do  you  believe,"  resumed  the  old  man,  lowering  his  eyes, 
"  that  God  has  given  to  His  Church  authority  to  remit  and 
retain,  according  as  it  proves  best,  the  debts  and  obligations 
that  men  mav  have  contracted  to  Him?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  do." 

"  Know,  then,  that  we  who  are  charged  with  the  care  of 
the  souls  in  this  place,  have,  for  all  those  who  apply  to  us,  the 
most  ample  powers  of  the  Church;  and  consequently,  that  I 
can,  when  you  request  it,  free  you  from  the  obligation,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  that  you  may  have  contracted  by  this  your 
vow." 

"  But  is  it  not  a  sin  to  turn  back,  and  to  repent  of  a  prom- 
ise made  to  the  Madonna?  I  made  it  at  the  time  with  my 
whole  heart  .  .  .  ."  said  Lucia,  violently  agitated  by  the  as- 
sault of  so  unexpected  a  hope,  for  so  I  must  call  it,  and  by  the 
uprising,  on  the  other  hand,  of  a  terror,  fortified  by  all  the 
thoughts  which  had  so  long  been  the  principal  occupation  of 
her  mind. 

**  A  sin,  my  daughter?"  said  the  Father,  "a  sin  to  have 
recourse  to  the  Church,  and  to  ask  her  minister  to  make  use 
of  the  authority  w^hich  he  has  received  from  her,  and  she  has 
received  from  God?  I  have  seen  how  you  two  have  been  led 
to  unite  yourselves;  and,  assuredly,  if  ever  it  would  seem 
that  two  were  joined  together  by  God,  you  wxre — you  are 
those  tw^o;  nor  do  I  now  see  that  God  may  wish  you  to  be 
put  asunder.  And  I  bless  Him  that  He  has  given  me,  un- 
worthy as  I  am,  the  power  of  speaking  in  His  name,  and  re- 
turning to  you  your  plighted  word.  And  if  you  request  me 
to  declare  you  absolved  from  this  vow,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to 
do  it;  nay,  I  wish  you  may  request  me." 

"Then!  ....  then!  ....  I  do  request  you,"  said  Lucia, 
with  a  countenance  no  longer  agitated,  except  by  modesty. 

The  friar  beckoned  to  the  youth,  who  was  standing  in  the 
furthest  corner,  intently  watching  (since  he  could  do  nothing 
else)  the  dialogue  in  which  he  was  so  much  interested;  and, 
on  his  drawing  near,  pronounced,  in  an  explicit  voice,  to 
Lucia,  *'  By  the  authority  I  have  received  from  the  Church, 
I  declare  you  absolved  from  the  vow  of  virginity,  annulling 


550 


MANZONI 


what  may  have  been  unadvised  in  it,  and  freeing  you  from 
every  obligation  you  may  thereby  have  contracted." 

Let  the  reader  imagine  how  these  words  sounded  in 
Renzo's  ears.  His  eyes  eagerly  thanked  him  who  had 
uttered  them,  and  instantly  sought  those  of  Lucia;  but  in 
vain. 

"  Return  in  security  and  peace  to  your  former  desires," 
pursued  the  Capuchin,  addressing  Lucia;  "beseech  the  Lord 
again  for  those  graces  you  once  besought  to  make  you  a  holy 
wife;  and  rely  upon  it,  that  He  will  bestow  them  upon  you 
more  abundantly,  after  so  many  sorrows.  And  you,"  said  he, 
turning  to  Renzo,  ''  remember,  my  son,  that  if  the  Church  re- 
stores to  you  this  companion,  she  does  it  not  to  procure  for 
you  a  temporal  and  earthly  pleasure,  which,  even  could  it  be 
complete,  and  free  from  all  intermixture  of  sorrow,  must  end 
in  one  great  affliction  at  the  moment  of  leaving  you;  but  she 
does  it  to  lead  you  both  forward  in  that  way  of  pleasantness 
which  shall  have  no  end.  Love  each  other  as  companions  in 
a  journey,  with  the  thought  that  you  will  have  to  part  from 
one  another,  and  with  the  hope  of  being  reunited  for  ever. 
Thank  Heaven  that  you  have  been  led  to  this  state,  not  through 
the  midst  of  turbulent  and  transitory  joys,  but  by  sufferings 
and  misery,  to  dispose  you  to  tranquil  and  collected  joy.  If 
God  grants  you  children,  make  it  your  object  to  bring  them 
up  for  Him,  to  inspire  them  with  love  to  Him,  and  to  all  men; 
and  then  you  will  train  them  rightly  in  every  thing  else.  Lu- 
cia! has  he  told  you,"  and  he  pointed  to  Renzo,  ''whom  he 
has  seen  here?  " 

"Oh  yes.  Father,  he  has!" 

"You  will  pray  for  him!  Don't  be  weary  of  doing  so. 
And  you  will  pray  also  for  me!  ...  .  My  children!  I  wish 
you  to  have  a  remembrance  of  the  poor  friar."  And  he  drew 
out  of  his  basket  a  little  box  of  some  common  kind  of  wood, 
but  turned  and  polished  with  a  certain  Capuchin  precision, 
and  continued :  "  Within  this  is  the  remander  of  that  loaf 
....  the  first  I  asked  for  charity;  that  loaf,  of  which  you 
must  have  heard  speak!  I  leave  it  to  you:  take  care  of  it; 
show  it  to  your  children!  They  will  be  born  into  a  wretched 
world,  into  a  miserable  age,  in  the  midst  of  proud  and  exas- 
perating men:  tell  them  always  to  forgive,  always! — every- 
thing, everything!  and  to  pray  for  the  poor  friar!  " 

So  saying,  he  handed  the  box  to  Lucia,  who  received  it 
with  reverence,  as  if  it  had  been  a  sacred  relic.  Then,  with 
a  calmer  voice,  he  added:  "Now,  then,  tell  me;  what  have 
you  to  depend  upon  here  in  Milan?    Where  do  you  propose 


THE   BETROTHED 


551 


to  lodge  on  leaving  this?     And  who  will  conduct  you  to  your 
mother,  whom  may  God  have  preserved  in  health?'* 

''This  good  lady  is  like  a  mother  to  me:  we  shall  leave 
this  place  together,  and  then  she  will  provide  for  every 
thing." 

''  God  bless  you,"  said  the  friar,  approaching  the  bed. 

"  I,  too,  thank  you,"  said  the  widow,  ''  for  the  comfort  you 
have  given  these  poor  creatures;  though  I  had  counted  upon 
keeping  this  dear  Lucia  always  with  me.  But  I  will  keep  her 
in  the  mean  while;  I  will  accompany  her  to  her  own  country, 
and  deliver  her  to  her  mother;  and,"  added  she,  in  a  lower 
tone,  ''  I  should  like  to  provide  her  wardrobe.  I  have  too 
much  wealth,  and  have  not  one  left  out  of  those  who  should 
have  shared  it  with  me." 

"  You  may  thus,"  said  the  friar,  "  make  an  acceptable 
oflfering  to  the  Lord,  and  at  the  same  time  benefit  your  neigh- 
bour. I  do  not  recommend  this  young  girl  to  you,  for  I  see 
already  how  she  has  become  your  daughter:  it  only  remains 
to  bless  God,  who  knows  how  to  show  Himself  a  father  even 
in  chastisement,  and  who,  by  bringing  you  together,  has  given 
so  plain  a  proof  of  His  love  to  both  of  you.  But  come!  "  re- 
sumed he,  turning  to  Renzo,  and  taking  him  by  the  hand, 
"  we  two  have  nothing  more  to  do  here :  we  have  already  been 
here  too  long.     Let  us  go." 

"Oh,  Father!"  said  Lucia,  "shall  I  see  you  again?  I 
who  am  of  no  service  in  this  world,  have  recovered;  and 
you!  .  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  now  a  long  time  ago,"  replied  the  old  man,  in  a 
mild  and  serious  tone,  "since  I  besought  of  the  Lord  a  very 
great  mercy,  that  I  might  end  my  days  in  the  service  of  my 
fellow-creatures.  If  He  now  vouchsafes  to  grant  it  me,  I 
would  wish  all  those  who  have  any  love  for  me,  to  assist  me 
in  praising  Him.  Come,  give  Renzo  your  messages  to  your 
mother." 

"  Tell  her  what  you  have  seen,"  said  Lucia  to  her  be- 
trothed; "that  I  have  found  another  mother  here,  that  we 
will  come  to  her  together  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  that  I 
hope,  earnestly  hope,  to  find  her  well." 

"  If  you  want  money,"  said  Renzo,  "  I  have  about  me  all 
that  you  sent,  and  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,"  interrupted  the  widow;  "  I  have  only  too  much." 

"  Let  us  go,"  suggested  the  friar. 

"  Good-bye,  till  we  meet  again,  Lucia !  .  .  .  .  and  to  you 
too,  kind  lady,"  said  Renzo,  unable  to  find  words  to  express 
all  that  he  felt  in  such  a  moment. 


552  MANZONI 

"  Who  knows  whether  the  Lord,  in  His  mercy,  will  allow 
us  all  to  meet  again!  "  exclaimed  Lucia. 

*'  May  He  be  with  you  always,  and  bless  you,"  said  Friar 
Cristoforo  to  the  two  companions;  and,  accompanied  by  Ren- 
zo,  he  quitted  the  cabin. 

The  evening  was  not  far  distant,  and  the  crisis  of  the  storm 
seemed  still  more  closely  impending.  The  Capuchin  again 
proposed  to  the  houseless  youth  to  take  shelter  for  that  night 
in  his  humble  dwelling.  "  I  can  not  keep  you  company," 
added  he;  "  but  you  will  at  least  be  under  cover." 

Renzo,  however,  was  burning  to  be  gone,  and  cared  not 
to  remain  any  longer  in  such  a  place,  where  he  would  not  be 
allowed  to  see  Lucia  again,  nor  even  be  able  to  have  a  little 
conversation  with  the  good  friar.  As  to  the  time  and  weather, 
we  may  safely  say  that  night  and  day,  sunshine  and  shower, 
zephyr  and  hurricane,  were  all  the  same  to  him  at  that  mo- 
ment. He  therefore  thanked  his  kind  friend,  but  said  that  he 
would  rather  go  as  soon  as  possible  in  search  of  Agnese. 

When  they  regained  the  road,  the  friar  pressed  his  hand, 
and  said:  "  If  (as  may  God  grant!)  you  find  that  poor  Agnese, 
salute  her  in  my  name;  and  beg  her,  and  all  those  who  are 
left,  and  remember  Father  Cristoforo,  to  pray  for  him.  God 
go  with  you,  and  bless  you  for  ever!  " 

"  Oh,  dear  Father!  ....  we  shall  meet  again? — we  shall 
meet  again?  " 

"  Above,  I  hope."  And  with  these  words  he  parted  from 
Renzo,  who,  staying  to  watch  him  till  he  beheld  him  disap- 
pear, set  oflf  hastily  toward  the  gate,  casting  his  farewell  looks 
of  compassion  on  each  side  over  the  melancholy  scene.  There 
was  an  unusual  bustle,  carts  rolling  about,  monatti  running 
to  and  fro,  people  securing  the  curtains  of  the  tents,  and  num- 
bers of  feeble  creatures  groping  about  among  these,  and 
in  the  porticoes,  to  shelter  themselves  from  the  impending 
storm. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

SCARCELY  had  Renzo  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  Laz- 
zeretto,  and  taken  the  way  to  the  right,  to  find  the  nar- 
row road  by  which,  in  the  morning,  he  had  come  out 
under  the  walls,  when  a  few  large  and  scattered  drops 
began  to  fall,  which  lighting  upon,  and  rebounding  from,  the 
white  and  parched  road,  stirred  up  a  cloud  of  very  fine  dust; 
these  soon  multiplied  into  rain;  and  before  he  reached  the  by- 
path, it  poured  down  in  torrents.  Far  from  feeling  any  dis- 
quietude, Renzo  luxuriated  in  it,  and  enjoyed  himself  in  that 
refreshing  coolness,  that  murmur,  that  general  motion  of  the 
grass  and  leaves,  shaking,  dripping,  revived,  and  glistening, 
as  they  were;  he  drew  in  several  deep  and  long  breaths;  and 
in  that  relenting  of  nature,  felt  more  freely  and  more  vividly, 
as  it  were,  that  which  had  been  wrought  in  his  own  destiny. 

But,  how  far  fuller  and  more  unalloyed  would  have  been 
this  feeling,  could  he  have  divined  what  actually  was  beheld 
a  few  days  afterward,  that  that  rain  carried  off — washed 
away,  so  to  say — the  contagion;  that,  from  that  day  forward, 
the  Lazzeretto,  if  it  was  not  about  to  restore  to  the  living  all 
the  living  whom  it  contained,  would  engulf,  at  least,  no  others; 
that,  within  one  week,  doors  and  shops  would  be  seen  re- 
opened; quarantine  would  scarcely  be  spoken  of  any  longer; 
and  of  the  pestilence  only  a  solitary  token  or  two  remain  here 
and  there;  that  trace  which  every  pestilence  had  left  behind  it 
for  some  time. 

Our  traveller,  then,  proceeded  with  great  alacrity,  without 
having  formed  any  plans  as  to  where,  how,  when,  or  whether 
at  all,  he  should  stop  for  the  night,  and  anxious  only  to  get 
forward,  to  reach  his  own  village  quickly,  to  find  somebody 
to  talk  to,  somebody  to  whom  he  might  relate  his  adventures, 
and,  above  all,  to  set  off  again  immediately  on  his  way  to 
Pasturo,  in  search  of  Agnese.  His  mind  was  quite  confused 
by  the  events  of  the  day;  but,  from  beneath  all  the  misery, 
the  horrors,  and  the  dangers  he  recalled,  one  little  thought  al- 
ways rose  to  the  surface: — I've  found  her;  she's  recovered; 

553 


554 


MANZONI 


she's  mine! — And  then  he  would  give  a  spring  which  scat- 
tered a  drizzling  shower  around,  like  a  spaniel  coming  up 
out  of  the  water;  at  other  times  he  would  content  himself  with 
rubbing  his  hands:  and  then,  on  he  would  go  more  cheerily 
than  ever.  With  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  road,  he  gathered  up 
so  to  say,  the  thoughts  he  had  left  there  in  the  morning,  and 
the  day  before,  as  he  came;  and,  with  the  greatest  glee,  those 
very  same  which  he  had  then  most  sought  to  banish  from  his 
mind — the  doubts,  the  difficulty  of  finding  her,  of  finding  her 
alive,  amid  so  many  dead  and  dying! — And  I  have  found  her 
alive! — he  concluded.  He  recurred  to  the  most  critical  mo- 
ments, the  most  terrible  obscurities,  of  that  day;  he  fancied 
himself  with  that  knocker  in  his  hand:  will  she  be  here  or 
not?  and  a  reply  so  little  encouraging;  and  before  he  had 
time  to  digest  it,  that  crowd  of  mad  rascals  upon  him;  and 
that  Lazzeretto,  that  sea?  there  I  wished  to  find  her!  And 
to  have  found  her  there!  He  recalled  the  moment  when  the 
procession  of  convalescents  had  done  passing  by:  what  a  mo- 
ment! what  bitter  sorrow  at  not  finding  her!  and  now  it  no 
longer  mattered  to  him.  And  that  quarter  for  the  women! 
And  there,  behind  that  cabin,  when  he  was  least  expecting  it, 
to  hear  that  voice,  that  very  voice!  And  to  see  her!  To  see 
her  standing!  But  what  then?  There  was  still  that  knot 
about  the  vow,  and  drawn  tighter  than  ever.  This  too  un- 
tied. And  that  madness  against  Don  Rodrigo,  that  cursed 
canker  which  exasperated  all  his  sorrows,  and  poisoned  all 
his  joys,  even  that  rooted  out.  So  that  it  would  be  difficult 
to  imagine  a  state  of  greater  satisfaction,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  uncertainty  about  Agnese,  his  grief  for  Father  Cristoforo, 
and  the  remembrance  that  he  was  still  in  the  midst  of  a  pes- 
tilence. 

He  arrived  at  Sesto  as  evening  was  coming  on,  without 
any  token  of  the  rain  being  about  to  stop.  But  feeling  more 
than  ever  disposed  to  go  forward;  considering,  too,  the  many 
difficulties  of  finding  a  lodging,  and  saturated  as  he  was  with 
wet,  he  would  not  even  think  of  an  inn.  The  only  necessity 
that  made  itself  felt  was  a  very  craving  appetite;  for  success, 
such  as  he  had  met  with,  would  have  enabled  him  to  digest 
something  more  substantial  than  the  Capuchin's  little  bowl  of 
soup.  He  looked  about  to  see  if  he  could  discover  a  baker's 
shop,  quickly  found  one,  and  received  two  loaves  with  the 
tongs,  and  the  other  ceremonies  we  have  described.  One  he 
put  into  his  pocket,  the  other  to  his  mouth;  and  on  he  went. 

When  he  passed  through  Monza,  the  night  had  completely 
closed  in:  he  managed,  however,  to  leave  the  town  in  the  di- 


THE   BETROTHED 


555 


rection  that  led  to  the  right  road.  But  except  for  this  quali- 
fication, which,  to  say  the  truth,  was  a  great  compensation, 
it  may  be  imagined  what  kind  of  a  road  it  was,  and  how  it 
was  becoming  worse  and  worse  every  moment.  Sunk  (as 
were  all;  and  we  must  have  said  so  elsewhere)  between  two 
banks,  almost  like  the  bed  of  a  river,  it  might  then  have 
been  called,  if  not  a  river,  at  least  in  reality  a  water-course; 
and  in  many  places  were  holes  and  puddles  from  which  it  was 
difficult  to  recover  one's  shoes,  and  sometimes  one's  footing. 
But  Renzo  extricated  himself  as  he  could,  without  impatience, 
without  bad  language,  and  without  regrets;  consoling  himself 
with  the  thought  that  every  step,  whatever  it  might  cost  him, 
brought  him  further  on  his  way,  that  the  rain  would  stop 
when  God  should  see  fit,  that  day  would  come  in  its  own  time, 
and  that  the  journey  he  was  meanwhile  performing,  would 
then  be  performed. 

Indeed,  I  may  say,  he  never  even  thought  of  this,  except 
in  the  moments  of  greatest  need.  These  were  digressions: 
the  grand  employment  of  his  mind  was  going  over  the  history 
of  the  melancholy  years  that  had  passed,  so  many  perplexi- 
ties, so  many  adversities,  so  many  moments  in  which  he  had 
been  about  to  abandon  even  hope,  and  give  up  everything  for 
lost;  and  then  to  oppose  to  these  the  images  of  so  far  differ- 
ent a  future,  the  arrival  of  Lucia,  and  the  wedding,  and  the 
setting  up  house,  and  the  relating  to  each  other  past  vicissi- 
tudes, and,  in  short,  their  whole  life. 

How  he  fared  at  forks  of  the  road,  for  some  indeed  there 
were;  whether  his  little  experience,  together  with  the  glimmer- 
ing twilight,  enabled  him  always  to  find  the  right  road,  or 
whether  he  always  turned  into  it  by  chance,  I  am  not  able  to 
say;  for  he  himself,  who  used  to  relate  his  history  with  great 
minuteness,  rather  tediously  than  otherwise  (and  everything 
leads  us  to  believe  that  our  anonymous  author  had  heard  it 
from  him  more  than  once),  he  himself  declared,  at  this  place, 
that  he  remembered  no  more  of  that  night  than  if  he  had 
spent  it  in  bed,  dreaming.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that  toward 
its  close,  he  found  himself  on  the  banks  of  the  Adda. 

It  had  never  ceased  raining  a  moment;  but  at  a  certain 
stage  it  had  changed  from  a  perfect  deluge  to  more  moderate 
rain,  and  then  into  a  fine,  silent,  uniform  drizzle:  the  lofty 
and  rarefied  clouds  formed  a  continual,  but  light  and  trans- 
parent, veil;  and  the  twilight  dawn  allowed  Renzo  to  dis- 
tinguish the  surrounding  country.  Within  this  tract  was  his 
own  village;  and  what  he  felt  at  the  thought  it  is  impossible 
to  describe.     I  can  only  say  that  those  mountains,  that  neigh- 


556 


MANZONI 


bouring  Resegone,  the  whole  territory  of  Lecco,  had  become, 
as  it  were,  his  own  property.  He  glanced,  too,  at  himself, 
and  discovered  that  he  looked,  to  say  the  truth,  somewhat  of 
a  contrast  to  what  he  felt,  to  what  he  even  fancied  he  ought 
to  look:  his  clothes  shrunk  up  and  clinging  to  his  body:  from 
the  crown  of  his  head  to  his  girdle  one  dripping,  saturated 
mass:  from  his  girdle  to  the  soles  of  his  feet,  mud  and 
splashes:  the  places  which  were  free  from  these  might  them- 
selves have  been  called  spots  and  splashes.  And  could  he 
have  seen  his  whole  figure  in  a  looking-glass,  with  the  brim 
of  his  hat  unstifTened  and  hanging  down,  and  his  hair  straight 
and  sticking  to  his  face,  he  would  have  considered  himself  a 
still  greater  beauty.  As  to  being  tired,  he  may  have  been  so; 
but,  if  he  were,  he  knew  nothing  about  it;  and  the  freshness 
of  the  morning,  added  to  that  of  the  night  and  of  his  trifling 
bath,  only  inspired  him  with  more  energy,  and  a  wish  to  get 
forward  on  his  way  more  rapidly. 

He  is  at  Pescate;  he  pursues  his  course  along  the  remain- 
ing part  of  the  road  that  runs  by  the  side  of  the  Adda,  giving 
a  melancholy  glance,  however,  at  Pescarenico;  he  crosses  the 
bridge;  and,  through  fields  and  lanes,  shortly  arrives  at  his 
friend's  hospitable  dwelling.  He,  who,  only  just  risen,  was 
standing  in  the  doorway  to  watch  the  weather,  raised  his  eyes 
in  amazement  at  that  strange  figure,  so  drenched,  bespattered, 
and,  we  may  say,  dirty,  yet  at  the  same  time,  so  lively  and  at 
ease:  in  his  whole  life  he  had  never  seen  a  man  worse 
equipped,  and  more  thoroughly  contented. 

"Aha!"  said  he;  ''here  already?  and  in  such  weather! 
How  have  things  gone?  " 

"  She's  there,"  said  Renzo;  "  she's  there,  she's  there." 

"Well?" 

"  Recovered,  which  is  better.  I  have  to  thank  the  Lord 
and  the  Madonna  for  it  as  long  as  I  live.  But  oh!  such 
grand  things,  such  wonderful  things!  I'll  tell  you  all  after- 
ward." 

"  But  what  a  plight  you  are  in!  " 

"  I'm  a  beauty,  am  I  not?  " 

"  To  say  the  truth,  you  might  employ  the  overplus  above 
to  wash  of¥  the  overplus  below.  But  wait  a  minute,  and  I'll 
make  you  a  good  fire." 

"  I  won't  refuse  it,  I  assure  you.  Where  do  you  think  it 
caught  me?  just  at  the  gate  of  the  Lazzeretto.  But  never 
mind!  let  the  weather  do  its  own  business,  and  I  mine." 

His  friend  then  went  out,  and  soon  returned  with  two 
bundles  of  faggots:  one  he  laid  on  the  ground,  the  other  on 


THE   BETROTHED 


557 


the  hearth,  and  with  a  few  embers  remaining  over  from  the 
evening,  quickly  kindled  a  fine  blaze.  Renzo,  meanwhile, 
had  taken  off  his  hat,  and  giving  it  two  or  three  shakes,  threw 
it  upon  the  ground;  and,  not  quite  so  easily,  had  also  pulled 
off  his  doublet.  He  then  drew  from  his  breeches'  pocket  his 
poniard,  the  sheath  of  which  was  so  wet  that  it  seemed  to 
have  been  laid  in  soak;  this  he  put  upon  the  table,  saying: 
"  This,  too,  is  in  a  pretty  plight;  but  there's  rain!  there's  rain! 
thank  God  ....  I've  had  some  hair-breadth  escapes!  .... 
I'll  tell  you  by  and  by."  And  he  began  rubbing  his  hands. 
"  Now  do  me  another  kindness,"  added  he;  "  that  little  bundle 
that  I  left  upstairs,  just  fetch  it  for  me,  for  before  these  clothes 
that  I  have  on  dry  .  .  .  ." 

Returning  with  the  bundle,  his  friend  said:  "I  should 
think  you  must  have  a  pretty  good  appetite:  I  fancy  you 
haven't  wanted  enough  to  drink  by  the  way;  but  something 
to  eat  .  .  .  ," 

^'  I  bought  two  rolls  yesterday  toward  evening;  but,  in- 
deed, they  haven't  touched  my  lips." 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  said  his  friend;  he  then  poured  some 
water  into  a  kettle,  which  he  suspended  upon  the  hook  over 
the  fire;  and  added:  "  I'm  going  to  milk:  when  I  come  back 
the  water  will  be  ready,  and  we'll  make  a  good  polenta.  You, 
meanwhile,  can  dress  yourself  at  your  leisure." 

When  left  alone,  Renzo,  not  without  some  difficulty,  took 
off  the  rest  of  his  clothes,  which  were  almost  as  if  glued  to  his 
skin;  he  then  dried  himself,  and  dressed  himself  anew  from 
head  to  foot.  His  friend  returned,  and  set  himself  to  make 
the  polenta,  Renzo,  meanwhile,  sitting  by  in  expectation. 

''  Now  I  feel  that  I'm  tired,"  said  he.  ''  But  it's  a  fine  long 
stretch!  That's  nothing,  however.  I've  so  much  to  tell  you 
it  will  take  the  whole  day.  Oh,  what  a  state  Milan's  in! 
What  one's  obliged  to  see!  what  one's  obliged  to  touch! 
Enough  to  make  one  loathe  oneself.  I  dare  say  I  wanted 
nothing  less  than  the  little  washing  I've  had.  And  what 
those  gentry  down  there  would  have  done  to  me!  You  shall 
hear.  But  if  you  could  see  the  Lazzeretto!  It's  enough  to 
make  one  lose  oneself  in  miseries.  Well,  well;  I'll  tell  you 
all  ...  .  And  she's  there,  and  you'll  see  her  here,  and  she'll 
be  my  wife,  and  you  must  be  a  witness,  and,  plague  or  no 
plague,  we'll  be  merry,  at  least  for  a  few  hours." 

In  short  he  verified  what  he  had  told  his  friend,  that  it 
would  take  all  the  day  to  relate  everything;  for,  as  it  never 
ceased  drizzling,  the  latter  spent  the  whole  of  it  under  cover, 
partly  seated  by  the  side  of  his  friend,  partly  busied  over  one 


558  MANZONI 

of  his  wine-vats  and  a  little  cask,  and  in  other  occupations  pre- 
paratory to  the  vintage  and  the  dressing  of  the  grapes,  in 
which  Renzo  failed  not  to  lend  a  hand;  for,  as  he  used  to  say, 
he  was  one  of  those  who  are  sooner  tired  of  doing  nothing 
than  of  working.  He  could  not,  however,  resist  taking  a 
little  run  up  to  Agnese's  cottage,  to  see  once  more  a  certain 
window,  and  there,  too,  to  rub  his  hands  with  glee.  He  went 
and  returned  unobserved,  and  retired  to  rest  in  good  time. 
In  good  time,  too,  he  rose  next  morning;  and  finding  that 
the  rain  had  ceased,  if  settled  fine  weather  had  not  yet  re- 
turned, he  set  ofl  quickly  on  his  way  to  Pasturo. 

It  was  still  early  when  he  arrived  there;  for  he  was  no  less 
willing  and  in  a  hurry  to  bring  matters  to  an  end,  than  the 
reader  probably  is.  He  inquired  for  Agnese,  and  heard  that 
she  was  safe  and  well;  a  small  cottage  standing  by  itself  was 
pointed  out  to  him  as  the  place  where  she  was  staying.  He 
went  thither,  and  called  her  by  name  from  the  street.  On 
hearing  such  a  call,  she  rushed  to  the  window;  and  while  she 
stood,  with  open  mouth,  on  the  point  of  uttering  I  know  not 
what  sound  of  exclamation,  Renzo  prevented  her  by  saying, 
"Lucia's  recovered:  I  saw  her  the  day  before  yesterday:  she 
sends  you  her  love,  and  will  be  here  soon.  And  besides  these, 
I've  so  many,  many  things  to  tell  you!  " 

Between  the  surprise  of  the  apparition,  the  joy  of  these 
tidings,  and  the  burning  desire  to  know  more  about  it,  Ag- 
nese began  one  moment  an  exclamation,  the  next  a  question, 
without  finishing  any;  then,  forgetting  the  precautions  she 
had  long  been  accustomed  to  take,  she  said,  "  I'll  come  and 
open  the  door  for  you." 

"Wait:  the  plague!"  said  Renzo;  you've  not  had  it,  I 
believe?  " 

"  No,  not  I:  have  you?  " 

"Yes,  I  have;  you  must  therefore  be  prudent.  I  come 
from  Milan;  and  you  shall  hear  that  I've  been  up  to  the  eyes 
in  the  midst  of  the  contagion.  To  be  sure,  I've  changed  from 
head  to  foot;  but  it's  an  abominable  thing  that  clings  to  one 
sometimes  like  witchcraft.  And  since  the  Lord  has  preserved 
you  hitherto,  you  must  take  care  of  yourself  till  this  infection 
is  over;  for  you  are  our  mother;  and  I  want  us  to  live  to- 
gether happily  for  a  long  while,  in  compensation  for  the  great 
sufiFerings  we  have  undergone,  I  at  least." 

"  But  .  .  .  ."  began  Agnese. 

"Eh!"  interrupted  Renzo,  "there's  no  but  that  will  hold. 
I  know  what  you  mean;  but  you  shall  hear,  you  shall  hear 
that  there  are  no  longer  any  buts  in  the  way.     Let  us  go  into 


THE   BETROTHED 


559 


some  open  space,  where  we  can  talk  at  our  ease,  without  dan- 
ger, and  you  shall  hear." 

Agnese  pointed  out  to  him  a  garden  behind  the  house;  if 
he  would  go  in,  and  seat  himself  on  one  of  the  two  benches 
which  he  would  find  opposite  each  other,  she  would  come 
down  directly,  and  go  and  sit  on  the  other.  Thus  it  was  ar- 
ranged; and  I  am  sure  that  if  the  reader,  informed  as  he  is 
of  preceding  events,  could  have  placed  himself  there  as  a 
third  party,  to  witness  with  his  own  eyes  that  animated  con- 
versation, to  hear  with  his  own  ears  those  descriptions,  ques- 
tions, explanations,  ejaculations,  condolences,  and  congratu- 
lations; about  Don  Rodrigo,  and  Father  Cristoforo,  and 
everything  else,  and  those  descriptions  of  the  future,  as  clear 
and  certain  as  those  of  the  past; — I  am  sure,  I  say,  he  would 
have  enjoyed  it  exceedingly,  and  would  have  been  the  last 
to  come  aw^ay.  But  to  have  this  conversation  upon  paper, 
in  mute  words  written  with  ink,  and  without  meeting  with  a 
single  new  incident,  I  fancy  he  would  not  care  much  for  it, 
and  would  rather  that  we  should  leave  him  to  conjecture  it. 
Their  conclusion  was  that  they  would  go  to  keep  house  all 
together,  in  the  territory  of  Bergamo,  where  Renzo  had  al- 
ready gained  a  good  footing.  As  to  the  time,  they  could  not 
decide,  because  it  depended  upon  the  plague  and  other  cir- 
cumstances; but  no  sooner  should  the  danger  be  over,  than 
Agnese  would  return  home  to  wait  there  for  Lucia,  or  Lucia 
would  wait  there  for  her;  and  in  the  mean  time  Renzo  would 
often  take  another  trip  to  Pasturo,  to  see  his  mother,  and  to 
keep  her  acquainted  with  whatever  might  happen. 

Before  taking  his  leave,  he  offered  money  to  her  also,  say- 
ing, "  I  have  them  all  here,  you  see,  those  scudi  you  sent:  I, 
too,  made  a  vow  not  to  touch  them,  until  the  mystery  was 
cleared  up.  Now,  however,  if  you  want  any  of  them,  bring 
me  a  little  bowl  of  vinegar  and  water,  and  Fll  throw  in  the 
fifty  scudi,  good  and  glittering  as  you  sent  them." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Agnese;  *'  I've  more  than  I  need  still  by 
me:  keep  yours  untouched,  and  they'll  do  nicely  to  set  up 
house  with." 

Renzo  took  his  departure,  with  the  additional  consolation 
of  having  found  one  so  dear  to  him  safe  and  well.  He  re- 
mained the  rest  of  that  day,  and  for  the  night,  at  his  friend's 
house,  and  on  the  morrow  was  again  on  his  way,  but  in  an- 
other direction,  toward  his  adopted  country. 

Here  he  found  Bortolo,  still  in  good  health,  and  in  less  ap- 
prehension of  losing  it;  for  in  those  few  days,  things  had  there 
also  rapidly  taken  a  favourable  turn.     New  cases  of  illness 


560 


MANZONI 


had  become  rare,  and  the  malady  was  no  longer  what  it  had 
been;  there  were  no  longer  those  fatal  blotches,  nor  violent 
symptoms;  but  slight  fevers,  for  the  most  part  intermittent, 
with,  at  the  worst,  a  discoloured  spot,  which  w^as  cured  like  an 
ordinary  tumour.  The  face  of  the  country  seemed  already 
changed;  the  survivors  began  to  come  forth,  to  reckon  up 
their  numbers,  and  mutually  to  exchange  condolences  and 
congratulations.  There  was  already  a  talk  of  resuming  busi- 
ness again;  such  masters  as  survived  already  began  to  look  out 
for  and  bespeak  workmen,  and  principally  in  those  branches  of 
art  where  the  number  had  been  scarce  even  before  the  conta- 
gion, as  was  that  of  silk-weaving.  Renzo,  without  any  dis- 
play of  levity,  promised  his  cousin  (with  the  proviso,  however, 
that  he  obtained  all  due  consent)  to  resume  his  employment, 
when  he  could  come  in  company  to  settle  himself  in  the  coun- 
try. In  the  mean  while  he  gave  orders  for  the  most  neces- 
sary preparations:  he  provided  a  more  spacious  dwelling,  a 
task  become  only  too  easy  to  execute  at  a  small  cost,  and 
furnished  it  with  all  necessary  articles,  this  time  breaking  into 
his  little  treasure,  but  without  making  any  very  great  hole  in 
it,  for  of  everything  there  was  a  superabundance  at  a  very 
moderate  price. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  he  returned  to  his  native  vil- 
lage, which  he  found  still  more  signally  changed  for  the  better. 
He  went  over  immediately  to  Pasturo :  there  he  found  Agnese 
in  good  spirits  again,  and  ready  to  return  home  as  soon  as 
might  be,  so  that  he  accompanied  her  thither  at  once:  nor 
will  we  attempt  to  describe  what  were  their  feelings  and  words 
on  again  beholding  those  scenes  together.  Agnese  found 
everything  as  she  had  left  it;  so  that  she  was  forced  to  declare, 
that,  considering  it  was  a  poor  widow  and  her  daughter,  the 
angels  had  kept  guard  over  it. 

*'  And  that  other  time,"  added  she,  "  when  it  might  have 
been  thought  that  the  Lord  was  looking  elsewhere,  and 
thought  not  of  us,  since  He  suffered  all  our  little  property  to 
be  carried  away,  yet,  after  all,  He  showed  us  the  contrary; 
for  He  sent  me  from  another  quarter  that  grand  store  of 
money  which  enabled  me  to  restore  everything.  I  say  every- 
thing, but  I  am  wrong;  because  Lucia's  wedding-clothes, 
which  were  stolen  among  the  rest,  good  and  complete  as  they 
were  at  first,  were  still  wanting;  and  behold,  now  they  come 
to  us  in  another  direction.  Who  would  have  told  me,  when  I 
was  working  so  busily  to  prepare  those  others,  You  think 
you  are  working  for  Lucia:  nay,  my  good  woman!  you  are 
working  for  you  know  not  whom.     Heaven  knows  what  sort 


THE   BETROTHED  561 

of  being  will  wear  this  veil,  and  all  those  clothes:  those  for 
Lucia — the  real  wedding-dress  which  is  to  serve  for  her,  will 
be  provided  by  a  kind  soul  whom  you  know  not,  nor  even 
that  there  is  such  a  person." 

Agnese's  first  care  was  to  prepare  for  this  kind  soul  the 
most  comfortable  accommodations  her  poor  little  cottage 
could  afford;  then  she  went  to  procure  some  silk  to  wind, 
and  thus,  employed  with  her  reel,  beguiled  the  wearisome 
hours  of  delay. 

Renzo,  on  his  part,  suffered  not  these  days,  long  enough 
in  themselves,  to  pass  away  in  idleness:  fortunately  he  under- 
stood two  trades,  and  of  these  two  chose  that  of  a  labourer. 
He  partly  helped  his  kind  host,  who  considered  it  particularly 
fortunate,  at  such  a  time,  to  have  a  workman  frequently  at  his 
command,  and  a  workman,  too,  of  his  abilities;  and  partly 
cultivated  and  restored  to  order  Agnese's  little  garden,  which 
had  completely  run  wild  during  her  absence.  As  to  his  own 
property,  he  never  thought  about  it  at  all,  because,  he  said, 
it 'was  too  entangled  a  periwig,  and  wanted  more  than  one 
pair  of  hands  to  set  it  to  rights  again.  He  did  not  even  set 
foot  into  it;  still  less  into  his  house:  it  would  have  pained  him 
too  much  to  see  its  desolation;  and  he  had  already  resolved 
to  dispose  of  everything,  at  whatever  price,  and  to  spend  in 
his  new  country  all  that  he  could  make  by  the  sale. 

If  the  survivors  of  the  plague  were  to  one  another  resusci- 
tated, as  it  were,  he,  to  his  fellow-countrymen,  was,  so  to  say, 
doubly  so:  every  one  welcomed  and  congratulated  him,  every 
one  wanted  to  hear  from  him  his  history.  The  reader  will 
perhaps  say,  how  went  on  the  af¥air  of  his  outlawry?  It  went 
on  very  well:  he  scarcely  thought  anything  more  about  it, 
supposing  that  they  who  could  have  enforced  it  would  no 
longer  think  about  it  themselves :  nor  was  he  mistaken.  This 
arose  not  merely  from  the  pestilence,  which  had  thwarted  so 
many  undertakings;  but,  as  may  have  been  seen  in  more  than 
one  place  in  this  story,  it  was  a  common  occurrence  in  those 
days,  that  special  as  well  as  general  orders  against  persons 
(unless  there  were  some  private  and  powerful  animosity  to 
keep  them  alive  and  render  them  availing),  often  continued 
without  taking  effect,  if  they  had  not  done  so  on  their  first 
promulgation ;  like  musket-balls,  which,  if  they  strike  no  blow, 
lie  quietly  upon  the  ground  without  giving  molestation  to  any 
one — a  necessary  consequence  of  the  extreme  facility  with 
which  these  orders  were  flung  about,  both  right  and  left. 
Man's  activity  is  limited;  and  whatever  excess  there  was  in 
the  making  of  regulations,   must   have   produced   so   much 

36 


562  MANZONI 

greater  a  deficiency  In  the  execution  of  them.  What  goes 
into  the  sleeves  can  not  go  into  the  skirt. 

If  any  one  wants  to  know  how  Renzo  got  on  with  Don 
Abbondio,  during  this  interval  of  expectation,  I  need  only 
say  that  they  kept  at  a  respectful  distance  from  each  other; 
the  latter  for  fear  of  hearing  a  whisper  about  the  wedding; 
and  at  the  very  thought  of  such  a  thing,  his  imagination  con- 
jured up  Don  Rodrigo  with  his  bravoes  on  the  one  side,  and 
the  Cardinal  with  his  arguments  on  the  other;  and  the  former, 
because  he  had  resolved  not  to  mention  it  to  him  till  the  very 
last  moment,  being  unvvilling  to  run  the  risk  of  making  him 
restive  beforehand,  of  stirring  up — who  could  tell? — some 
difficulty,  and  of  entangling  things  by  useless  chit-chat.  All 
his  chit-chat  was  wdth  Agnese.  "  Do  you  think  she'll  come 
soon?"  one  would  ask.  "  I  hope  so,"  would  the  other  reply; 
and  frequently  the  one  who  had  given  the  answer  would,  not 
long  afterward,  make  the  same  inquiry.  With  these  and  simi- 
lar cheats  they  endeavoured  to  beguile  the  time,  which  seemed 
to  them  longer  and  longer  in  proportion  as  more  passed  away. 

We  will  make  the  reader,  however,  pass  over  all  this  pe- 
riod in  one  moment,  by  briefly  stating  that,  a  few  days  after 
Renzo's  visit  to  the  Lazzeretto,  Lucia  left  it  with  the  kind 
widow;  that,  a  general  quarantine  having  been  enjoined,  they 
kept  it  together  in  the  house  of  the  latter,  that  part  of  the  time 
was  spent  in  preparing  Lucia's  wardrobe,  at  which,  after  sun- 
dry ceremonious  objections,  she  was  obliged  to  work  herself; 
and  that  the  quarantine  having  expired,  the  widow  left  her 
warehouse  and  dwelling  under  the  custody  of  her  brother, 
the  commissioner,  and  prepared  to  set  off  on  her  journey  with 
Lucia.  We  could,  too,  speedily  add — they  set  ofif,  arrived, 
and  all  the  rest;  but,  with  all  our  willingness  to  accommodate 
ourselves  to  this  haste  of  the  reader's,  there  are  three  things 
appertaining  to  this  period  of  time,  which  we  are  not  willing 
to  pass  over  in  silence;  and  with  two,  at  least,  we  believe  the 
reader  himself  will  say  that  we  should  have  been  to  blame  in 
so  doing. 

The  first  is,  that  when  Lucia  returned  to  relate  her  ad- 
ventures to  the  good  widow  more  in  particular,  and  with 
greater  order  than  she  could  do  in  her  agitation  of  mind 
when  she  first  confided  them  to  her,  and  when  she  more  ex- 
pressly mentioned  the  Signora  who  had  given  her  shelter  in 
the  monastery  at  Monza,  she  learnt  from  her  friend  things 
which,  by  giving  her  the  key  of  many  mysteries,  filled  her 
mind  with  melancholy  and  fearful  astonishment.  She  learnt 
from  the  widow  that  the  unhappy  lady,  having  fallen  under 


THE  BETROTHED  563 

suspicion  of  most  atrocious  conduct,  had  been  conveyed,  by 
order  of  the  Cardinal,  to  a  monastery  at  Milan;  that  there, 
after  long  indulgence  in  rage  and  struggles,  she  had  repented, 
and  confessed  her  faults,  and  that  her  present  life  was  one  of 
such  voluntary  inflictons,  that  no  one,  except  by  depriving 
her  of  that  life  entirely,  could  have  invented  a  severer  punish- 
ment for  her.  Should  any  one  wish  to  be  more  particularly 
acquainted  with  this  melancholy  history,  he  will  find  it  in  the 
work  and  at  the  place  which  we  have  elsewhere  quoted  in  re- 
lation to  this  same  person. 

The  other  fact  is,  that  Lucia,  after  making  inquiries  about 
Father  Cristoforo  of  all  the  Capuchins  she  could  meet  with  in 
the  Lazzeretto,  heard  there,  with  more  sorrow  than  surprise, 
that  he  had  died  of  the  pestilence. 

Lastly,  before  leaving  Milan,  she  wished  also  to  ascertain 
something  about  her  former  patrons,  and  to  perform,  as  she 
said,  an  act  of  duty,  if  any  yet  remained.  The  widow  accom- 
panied her  to  the  house,  where  they  learned  that  both  one  and 
the  other  had  been  carried  off  with  the  multitude.  When  we 
have  said  of  Donna  Prassede  that  she  was  dead,  we  have  said 
all;  but  Don  Ferrante,  considering  that  he  was  a  man  of  eru- 
dition, is  deemed  by  our  anonymous  author  worthy  of  more 
extended  mention;  and  we,  at  our  own  risk,  will  transcribe, 
as  nearly  as  possible,  what  he  has  left  on  record  about  him. 

He  says,  then,  that,  on  the  very  first  whisper  of  pestilence, 
Don  Ferrante  was  one  of  the  most  resolute,  and  ever  after- 
ward one  of  the  most  persevering,  in  denying  it,  not  indeed 
with  loud  clamours,  like  the  people,  but  with  arguments,  of 
which,  at  least,  no  one  could  complain  that  they  wanted  con- 
catenation. 

''  In  rerum  natura,"  he  used  to  say,  "  there  are  but  two 
species  of  things,  substances  and  accidents;  and  if  I  prove 
that  the  contagion  can  not  be  either  one  or  the  other,  I  shall 
have  proved  that  it  does  not  exist — that  it  is  a  mere  chimera. 
Here  I  am,  then.  Substances  are  either  spiritual  or  material. 
That  the  contagion  is  a  spiritual  substance,  is  an  absurdity 
no  one  would  venture  to  maintain;  it  is  needless,  therefore, 
to  speak  of  it.  Material  substances  are  either  simple  or  com- 
pound. Now,  the  contagion  is  not  a  simple  substance;  and 
this  may  be  shown  in  a  few  words.  It  is  not  an  ethereal  sub- 
stance; because,  if  it  were,  instead  of  passing  from  one  body 
to  another,  it  would  fliy  off  as  quickly  as  possible  to  its  own 
sphere.  It  is  not  aqueous:  because  it  would  wet  things,  and 
be  dried  up  by  the  wind.  It  is  not  igneous;  because  it  would 
burn.     It  is  not  earthy;  because  it  would  be  visible.     Neither 


564  MANZONI 

is  it  a  compound  substance;  because  it  must  by  all  means  be 
sensible  to  the  sight  and  the  touch;  and  who  has  seen  this 
contagion?  who  has  touched  it?  It  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  it  can  be  an  accident.  Worse  and  worse.  These  gen- 
tlemen, the  doctors,  say  that  it  is  communicated  from  one 
body  to  another;  for  this  is  their  Achilles,  this  the  pretext 
for  issuing  so  many  useless  orders.  Now,  supposing  it  an 
accident,  it  comes  to  this,  that  it  must  be  a  transitive  ac- 
cident, two  words  quite  at  variance  with  each  other;  there 
being  no  plainer  and  more  established  fact  in  the  whole  of 
philosophy  than  this,  that  an  accident  can  not  pass  from  one 
subject  to  another.  For  if,  to  avoid  this  Scylla,  we  shelter 
ourselves  under  the  assertion  that  it  is  an  accident  produced, 
we  fly  from  Scylla  and  run  upon  Charybdis:  because,  if  it  be 
produced,  then  it  is  not  communicated,  it  is  not  propagated, 
as  people  go  about  affirming.  These  principles  being  laid 
down,  what  use  is  it  to  come  talking  to  us  so  about  weals,  pus- 
tules, and  carbuncles?  .  .  .  ." 

"  All  absurdities,"  once  escaped  from  somebody  or  other. 

"No,  no,"  resumed  Don  Ferrante,  "I  don't  say  so:  sci- 
ence is  science ;  only  we  must  know  how  to  employ  it.  Weals, 
pustules,  carbuncles,  parotides,  violaceous  tumours,  black 
swellings,  are  all  respectable  words,  which  have  their  true  and 
legitimate  signification:  but  I  say  that  they  don't  affect  the 
question  at  all.  Who  denies  that  there  may  be  such  things, 
nay,  that  there  actually  are  such?  All  depends  upon  seeing 
where  they  come  from." 

Here  began  the  woes  even  of  Don  Ferrante.  So  long  as  • 
he  confined  himself  to  declaiming  against  the  opinion  of  a  pes- 
tilence, he  found  everywhere  willing,  obliging,  and  respectful 
listeners;  for  it  can  not  be  expressed  how  much  authority  the 
opinion  of  a  learned  man  by  profession  carries  with  it,  while 
he  is  attempting  to  prove  to  others  things  of  which  they  are 
already  convinced.  But  when  he  came  to  distinguish,  and  to 
try  and  demonstrate  that  the  error  of  these  physicians  did  not 
consist  in  affirming  that  there  was  a  terrible  and  prevalent 
malady,  but  in  assigning  its  rules  and  causes;  then  (I  am 
speaking  of  the  earliest  times,  when  no  one  would  listen  to  a 
word  about  pestilence),  then,  instead  of  listeners,  he  found 
rebellious  and  intractable  opponents;  then  there  was  no  room 
for  speechifying,  and  he  could  no  longer  put  forth  his  doc- 
trines but  by  scraps  and  piecemeal. 

"  There's  the  true  reason  only  too  plainly,  after  all,"  said 
he;  "and  even  they  are  compelled  to  acknowledge  it,  who 
maintain    that    other    empty    proposition    besides  ....  Let 


THE   BETROTHED  565 

them  deny,  if  they  can,  that  fatal  conjunction  of  Saturn  with 
Jupiter.  And  when  was  it  ever  heard  say  that  influences  may 
be  propagated  ....  And  would  these  gentlemen  deny  the 
existence  of  influences?  Will  they  deny  that  there  are  stars, 
or  tell  me  that  they  are  placed  up  there  for  no  purpose,  like 
so  many  pin-heads  stuck  into  a  pin-cushion?  .  .  .  But  what 
I  can  not  understand  about  these  doctors  is  this:  to  confess 
that  we  are  under  so  malignant  a  conjunction,  and  then  to 
come  and  tell  us,  with  an  eager  face,  '  Don't  touch  this,  and 
don't  touch  that,  and  you'll  be  safe ! '  And  if  this  avoiding  of 
material  contact  with  terrestrial  bodies  could  hinder  the  vir- 
tual effect  of  celestial  ones!  And  such  anxiety  about  burning 
old  clothes!  Poor  people!  will  you  burn  Jupiter,  will  you 
burn  Saturn?  " 

His  fretus,  that  is  to  say,  on  these  grounds,  he  used  no 
precautions  against  the  pestilence;  took  it,  went  to  bed,  and 
went  to  die,  like  one  of  Metastasio's  heroes,  quarrelling  with 
the  stars. 

And  that  famous  library  of  his?  Perhaps  it  is  still  there, 
distributed  around  his  walls. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

ONE  fine  evening,  Agnese  heard  a  carriage  stop  at  the 
door. — It  is  she,  and  none  other! — It  was  indeed  Lu- 
cia, with  the  good  widow:  the  mutual  greetings  we 
leave  the  reader  to  imagine. 

Next  morning  Renzo  arrived  in  good  time,  totally  igno- 
rant of  what  had  happened,  and  with  no  other  intentions  than 
of  pouring  out  his  feelings  a  little  with  Agnese  about  Lucia's 
long  delay.  The  gesticulations  he  made,  and  the  exclamations 
he  uttered,  on  finding  her  thus  before  his  eyes,  we  will  also 
refer  to  our  reader's  imagination.  Lucia's  exhibitions  of 
pleasure  toward  him  were  such,  that  it  will  not  take  many 
words  to  give  an  account  of  them.  "  Good  morning,  Renzo : 
how  do  you  do?  "  said  she,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  an  air  of 
composure.  Nor  let  the  reader  think  that  Renzo  considered 
this  mode  of  reception  too  cold,  and  took  it  at  all  amiss.  He 
entered  fully  into  the  meaning  of  her  behaviour;  and  as  among 
educated  people  one  knows  how  to  make  allowance  for  com- 
pliments, so  he  understood  very  well  what  feelings  lay  hidden 
beneath  these  words.  Besides,  it  was  easy  enough  to  per- 
ceive that  she  had  two  ways  of  profifering  them,  one  for  Renzo, 
and  another  for  all  those  she  might  happen  to  know. 

"  It  does  me  good  to  see  you,"  replied  the  youth,  making 
use  of  a  set  phrase,  which  he  himself,  however,  had  invented 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

"Our  poor  Father  Cristoforo!  .  .  .  ."  said  Lucia;  "pray 
for  his  soul:  though  one  may  be  almost  sure  that  he  is  now 
praying  for  us  above." 

"  I  expected  no  less,  indeed,"  said  Renzo.  Nor  was  this 
the  only  melancholy  chord  touched  in  the  course  of  this  dia- 
logue. But  what  then?  Whatever  subject  was  the  topic  of 
conversation,  it  always  seemed  to  them  delightful.  Like  a 
capricious  horse,  which  halts  and  plants  itself  in  a  certain  spot, 
and  lifts  first  one  hoof  and  then  another,  and  sets  it  down  again 
in  the  self-same  place,  and  cuts  a  hundred  capers  before  tak- 
ing a  single  step,  and  then  all  on  a  sudden  starts  on  its  career, 

556 


THE   BETROTHED  567 

and  speeds  forward  as  if  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  wind;  such 
had  time  become  in  his  eyes:  at  first  minutes  had  seemed 
hours;  now  hours  seemed  to  him  Hke  minutes. 

The  widow  not  only  did  not  spoil  the  party,  but  entered 
into  it  with  great  spirit:  nor  could  Renzo,  when  he  saw  her 
lying  on  that  miserable  bed  in  the  Lazzeretto,  have  imagined 
her  of  so  companionable  and  cheerful  a  disposition.  But  the 
Lazzeretto  and  the  country,  death  and  a  wedding,  are  not  ex- 
actly one  and  the  same  thing.  With  Agnese  she  was  very 
soon  on  friendly  terms;  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  her  with 
Lucia,  so  tender,  and,  at  the  same  time,  playful,  rallying  her 
gracefully  and  without  effort,  just  so  much  as  was  necessary 
to  give  more  courage  to  her  words  and  motions. 

At  length  Renzo  said  that  he  was  going  to  Don  Abbondio, 
to  make  arrangements  about  the  wedding. 

He  went,  and  with  a  certain  air  of  respectful  raillery,  "  Si- 
gnor  Curate,"  said  he,  "  have  you  at  last  lost  that  headache, 
which  you  told  me  prevented  your  marrying  us?  We  are  now 
in  time;  the  bride  is  here,  and  I've  come  to  know  when  it 
will  be  convenient  to  you:  but  this  time,  I  must  request  you 
to  make  haste." 

Don  Abbondio  did  not,  indeed,  reply  that  he  would  not; 
but  he  began  to  hesitate,  to  bring  forward  sundry  excuses,  to 
throw  out  sundry  insinuations:  and  why  bring  himself  into 
notice  and  publish  his  name,  with  that  proclamaton  for  his 
seizure  still  out  against  him?  and  that  the  thing  could  be 
done  equally  well  elsewhere;  and  this,  that,  and  the  other  ar- 
gument. 

"  Oh,  I  see!  "  said  Renzo;  "  you've  still  a  little  pain  in  your 
head.  But  listen,  listen."  And  he  began  to  describe  in  what 
state  he  had  beheld  poor  Don  Rodrigo;  and  that  by  that  time 
he  must  undoubtedly  be  gone.  "  Let  us  hope,"  concluded  he, 
"  that  the  Lord  will  have  had  mercy  on  him." 

"  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  us,"  said  Don  Abbondio. 
"  Did  I  say  no?  Certainly  I  did  not;  but  I  speak  ....  I 
speak  for  good  reasons.  Besides,  don't  you  see,  as  long  as 
a  man  has  breath  in  his  body  ....  Only  look  at  me:  I'm 
somewhat  sickly;  I  too  have  been  nearer  the  other  world  than 
this:  and  yet  I'm  here;  and  ....  if  troubles  don't  come 
upon  me  .  .  .  why  ....  I  may  hope  to  stay  here  a  little 
longer  yet.  Think,  too,  of  some  people's  constitutions.  But, 
as  I  say,  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  us." 

After  a  little  further  conversation  neither  more  nor  less 
conclusive,  Renzo  made  an  elegant  bow,  returned  to  his 
party,  made  his  report  of  the  interview,  and  concluded  by  say- 


568 


MANZONI 


ing:  "I've  come  away,  because  I've  had  quite  enough  of  it, 
and  that  I  mightn't  run  the  risk  of  losing  my  patience,  and 
using  bad  words.  Sometimes  he  seemed  exactly  like  what  he 
was  that  other  time;  the  very  same  hesitation,  and  the  very 
same  arguments:  I'm  sure  if  it  had  lasted  a  little  longer,  he'd 
have  returned  to  the  charge  with  some  words  in  Latin.  I 
see  there  must  be  another  delay:  it  would  be  better  to  do 
what  he  says  at  once,  and  go  and  get  married  where  we're 
about  to  live." 

''  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  the  widow.  "  I  should 
like  you  to  let  us  women  go  make  the  trial,  and  see  whether 
we  can't  find  rather  a  better  way  to  manage  him.  By  this 
means,  too,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  this  man, 
whether  he's  just  such  as  you  describe  him.  After  dinner  I 
should  like  to  go,  not  to  assail  him  again  too  quickly.  And 
now,  Signor  bridegroom,  please  to  accompany  us  two  in  a 
little  walk,  while  Agnese  is  so  busily  employed:  I  will  act  the 
part  of  Lucia's  mother.  I  want  very  much  to  see  these  moun- 
tains, and  this  lake  of  which  I've  heard  so  much,  rather  more 
at  large,  for  the  little  I've  already  seen  of  them  seems  to  me 
a  charmingly  fine  view." 

Renzo  escorted  them  first  to  the  cottage  of  his  hospitable 
friend,  where  they  met  with  a  hearty  welcome;  and  they  made 
him  promise  that,  not  that  day  only,  but,  if  he  could,  every 
day,  he  would  join  their  party  at  dinner. 

Having  returned  from  their  ramble,  and  dined,  Renzo  sud- 
denly took  his  departure,  w^ithout  saying  where  he  was  going. 
The  women  waited  a  little  while  to  confer  together,  and  con- 
cert about  the  mode  of  assailing  Don  Abbondio;  and  at  length 
they  set  oi¥  to  make  the  attack. 

Here  they  are,  I  declare — said  he  to  himself;  but  he  put 
on  a  pleasant  face,  and  offered  warm  congratulations  to  Lucia, 
greetings  to  Agnese,  and  compliments  to  the  stranger.  He 
made  them  sit  down;  then  he  entered  upon  the  grand  subject 
of  the  plague,  and  wanted  to  hear  from  Lucia  how  she  had 
managed  to  get  over  it  in  the  midst  of  so  many  sorrows:  the 
Lazzeretto  afforded  an  opportunity  of  bringing  her  companion 
into  conversation ;  then,  as  was  but  fair,  Don  Abbondio  talked 
about  his  share  in  the  storm;  then  followed  great  rejoicings 
with  Agnese,  that  she  had  come  forth  unharmed.  The  con- 
versation was  carried  to  some  length:  from  the  very  first  mo- 
ment the  two  elders  were  on  the  watch  for  a  favourable  op- 
portunity of  mentioning  the  essential  point;  and  at  length  one 
of  the  two,  I  am  not  sure  which,  succeeded  in  breaking  the  ice. 
But  what  think  you?     Don  Abbondio  could  not  hear  with 


THE    C01\. 


'avure  :  engravmj 


"  enough  oi  ii, 

ai.  and 

uSi   >3  v     ,,..at  he 

w  IS  t  id  the  very 

sr:  longer,  he'd 

^->ii.  jii  X-atin.     I 

'{  be  better  to  do 


.i inner  i 


ne  cor 


ind  CO  ■ 


the  grand  subject 


rs? 


jJon  . 

.........  1 


'.i  one 

ed  in  breaking  the  ice. 

could  not  hear  with 


•  •• 

•  .  • 


THE   BETROTHED  569 

that  ear.  He  took  care  not  to  say  no,  but  behold!  he  again 
recurred  to  his  usual  evasions,  circumlocutions,  and  hoppings 
from  bush  to  bush.  "  It  would  be  necessary,"  he  said,  "  to  get 
rid  of  that  order  for  Renzo's  arrest.  You,  Signora,  who  come 
from  Milan,  will  know  more  or  less  the  course  these  matters 
take;  you  would  claim  protection — some  cavalier  of  weight: 
for  with  such  means  every  wound  may  be  cured.  If  then  we 
may  jump  to  the  conclusion,  without  perplexing  ourselves 
with  so  many  considerations;  as  these  young  people,  and  our 
good  Agnese  here,  already  intend  to  expatriate  themselves 
(but  I'm  talking  at  random;  for  one's  country  is  wherever 
one  is  well  off),  it  seems  to  me  that  all  may  be  accomplished 
there,  where  no  proclamation  interposes.  I  don't  myself  ex- 
actly see  that  this  is  the  moment  for  the  conclusion  of  this 
match,  but  I  wish  it  well  concluded,  and  undisturbedly.  To 
tell  the  truth:  here,  with  this  edict  in  force,  to  proclaim  the 
name  of  Lorenzo  Tramaglino  from  the  altar,  I  couldn't  do  it 
with  a  quiet  conscience:  I  too  sincerely  wish  them  well;  I 
should  be  afraid  I  were  doing  them  an  injury.  You  see, 
ma'am,  and  they  too." 

Here  Agnese  and  the  widow,  each  in  her  own  way,  broke 
in  to  combat  these  arguments:  Don  Abbondio  reproduced 
them  in  another  shape:  it  was  a  perpetual  recommencement: 
when  lo!  enter  Renzo  with  a  determined  step,  and  tidings  in 
his  face. 

''  The  Signor  Marquis  has  arrived,"  said  he. 

"What  does  this  mean?  Arrived  where?"  asked  Don 
Abbondio. 

"  He  has  arrived  at  his  palace,  which  was  once  Don  Rodri- 
go's;  because  this  Signor  Marquis  is  the  heir  by  feoffment 
in  trust,  as  they  say;  so  that  there's  no  longer  any  doubt. 
As  for  myself,  I  should  be  very  glad  of  it,  if  I  could  hear  that 
that  poor  man  had  died  in  peace.  At  any  rate,  I've  said 
Paternosters  for  him  hitherto;  now  I  will  say  the  De  Pro- 
fundis.     And  this  Signor  Marquis  is  a  very  fine  man." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Don  Abbondio,  "  I've  heard  him  men- 
tioned more  than  once  as  a  really  excellent  Signor,  a  man  of 
the  old  stamp.     But  is  it  positively  true?  .  .  .  ." 

"Will  vou  believe  the  sexton?" 

"Why?" 

"  Because  he's  seen  him  with  his  own  eyes.  I've  only 
been  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  castle;  and,  to  say  the  truth, 
I  went  there  on  purpose,  thinking  they  must  know  something 
there.  And  several  people  told  me  about  it.  Afterward,  I 
met  Ambrogio,  who  had  just  been  up  there,  and  had  seen  him, 
37 


570 


MANZONI 


I  say,  take  possession.  Will  you  hear  Ambrogio's  testimony? 
I  made  him  wait  outside  on  purpose." 

"  Yes,  let  him  come  in,"  said  Don  Abbondio.  Renzo  went 
and  called  the  sexton,  who,  after  confirming  every  fact,  adding 
fresh  particulars,  and  dissipating  every  doubt,  again  went  on 
his  way. 

'*  Ah!  he's  dead,  then!  he's  really  gone!"  exclaimed  Don 
Abbondio.  "  You  see,  my  children,  how  Providence  over- 
takes some  people.  You  know  what  a  grand  thing  this  is! 
what  a  great  relief  to  this  poor  country!  for  it  was  impossible 
to  live  with  him  here.  This  pestilence  has  been  a  great 
scourge,  but  it  has  also  been  a  good  broom;  it  has  swept  away 
some,  from  whom,  my  children,  we  could  never  have  freed 
ourselves.  Young,  blooming,  and  in  full  vigour,  we  might 
have  said  that  they  who  were  destined  to  assist  at  their  funeral, 
were  still  writing  Latin  exercises  at  school;  and  in  the  twin- 
kling of  an  eye  they've  disappeared,  by  hundreds  at  a  time. 
We  shall  no  longer  see  him  going  about  with  those  cut-throat- 
looking  fellows  at  his  heels,  with  such  an  ostentatious  and 
supercilious  air,  looking  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  ramrod,  and 
staring  at  people  as  if  they  were  all  placed  in  the  world  to  be 
honoured  by  his  condescension.  Well,  he's  here  no  longer, 
and  we  are.  He'll  never  again  send  such  messages  to  honest 
men.  He's  given  us  all  a  great  deal  of  disquietude,  you  see; 
for  now  we  may  venture  to  say  so." 

"  I've  forgiven  him  from  my  heart,"  said  Renzo. 

"  And  you  do  right!  it's  your  duty  to  do  so,"  replied  Don 
Abbondio ;  "  but  one  may  thank  Heaven,  I  suppose,  who  has 
delivered  us  from  him.  But  to  return  to  ourselves:  I  repeat, 
do  what  you  like  best.  If  you  wish  me  to  marry  you,  here 
I  am:  if  it  be  more  convenient  to  you  to  go  elsewhere,  do  so. 
As  to  the  order  of  arrest,  I  likewise  think  that,  as  there  is  now 
no  longer  any  one  who  keeps  his  eye  on  you,  and  wishes  to 
do  you  harm,  it  isn't  worth  giving  yourself  any  great  uneasi- 
ness about  it;  particularly  as  this  gracious  decree,  on  occa- 
sion of  the  birth  of  the  most  serene  Infanta,  is  interposed. 
And  then  the  plague!  the  plague!  Oh,  that  plague  has  put 
to  flight  many  a  grand  thing!  So  that,  if  you  like  ....  to- 
day is  Thursday  ....  on  Sunday  I'll  ask  you  in  church;  be- 
cause what  may  have  been  done  in  that  way  before  will  count 
for  nothing,  after  so  long  an  interval;  and  then  I  shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  marrying  you  myself." 

*'  You  know  we  came  about  this  very  thing,"  said  Renzo. 

"  Very  well;  I  shall  attend  you:  and  I  must  also  write  im- 
mediately and  inform  his  Eminence." 


THE   BETROTHED 


571 


"  Who  Is  his  Eminence?  " 

"  His  Eminence,"  replied  Don  Abbondio,  "  is  our  Signer 
Cardinal  the  Archbishop,  whom  may  God  preserve!  " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  answered  Agnese;  "  but  though 
I'm  a  poor  ignorant  creature,  I  can  assure  you  he's  not  called 
so;  because,  the  second  time  we  were  about  to  speak  to  him, 
just  as  I'm  speaking  to  you,  sir,  one  of  the  priests  drew  me 
aside,  and  instructed  me  how  to  behave  to  a  gentleman  like 
him;  and  that  he  ought  to  be  called,  your  illustrious  Lord- 
ship, and,  my  Lord." 

"  And  now,  if  he  had  to  repeat  his  instructions,  he'd  tell 
you  that  he  is  to  have  the  title  of  Eminence:  do  you  under- 
stand now?  Because  the  Pope,  whom  may  God  likewise  pre- 
serve, has  ordered,  ever  since  the  month  of  June,  that  Car- 
dinals are  to  have  this  title.  And  why  do  you  think  he  has 
come  to  this  resolution?  because  the  word  illustrious,  which 
once  belonged  to  them  and  certain  princes,  has  now  become 
— even  you  know  what,  and  to  how  many  it  is  given;  and 
how  willingly  they  swallow  it!  And  w^hat  would  you  have 
done?  Take  it  away  from  all?  Then  we  should  have  com- 
plaints, hatred,  troubles,  and  jealousies  without  end,  and  after 
all,  they  would  go  on  just  as  before.  So  the  Pope  has  found 
a  capital  remedy.  By  degrees,  however,  they  will  begin  to 
give  the  title  of  Eminence  to  Bishops;  then  Abbots  will  claim 
it ;  then  Provosts ;  for  men  are  made  so ;  they  must  always  be 
advancing,  always  be  advancing;  then  Canons  .  .  .  ." 

"And  curates?"  said  the  widow. 

"  No,  no,"  pursued  Don  Abbondio,  *'  the  curates  must 
draw  the  cart:  never  fear  that  'your  Reverence'  will  sit  ill 
upon  curates  to  the  end  of  the  world.  Farther,  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  cavaliers,  who  are  accustomed  to  hear  them- 
selves called  Illustrious,  and  to  be  treated  like  Cardinals, 
should  some  day  or  other  want  the  title  of  Eminence  them- 
selves. And  if  they  want  it,  you  know,  depend  upon  it  they'll 
find  somebody  to  give  it  them.  And  then,  whoever  happens 
to  be  Pope  then,  will  invent  something  else  for  the  Cardinals. 
But  come,  let  us  return  to  our  own  afifairs.  On  Sunday,  I'll 
ask  you  in  church;  and,  meanwhile,  what  do  you  think  I've 
thought  of  to  serve  you  better?  Meanwhile,  we'll  ask  for  a 
dispensation  for  the  two  other  times.  They  must  have  plenty 
to  do  up  at  Court  in  giving  dispensations,  if  things  go  on 
everywhere  as  they  do  here.  I've  already  ....  one  .... 
two  ....  three  ....  for  Sunday,  without  counting  your- 
selves; and  some  others  may  occur  yet.  And  then  you'll  see 
afterward;  the  fire  has  caught,  and  there'll  not  be  left  one 


5^2  MANZONI 

person  single.  Perpetua  surely  made  a  mistake  to  die  now; 
for  this  was  the  time  that  even  she  would  have  found  a  pur- 
chaser.    And  I  fancy,  Signora,  it  will  be  the  same  at  Milan." 

"  So  it  is,  indeed;  you  may  imagine  it,  when,  in  my  parish 
only,  last  Sunday,  there  were  fifty  weddings." 

**  I  said  so;  the  world  won't  come  to  an  end  yet.  And 
you,  Signora,  has  no  humble  fly  begun  to  hover  about  you?  " 

"No,   no;    I   don't   think   about   such   things,   nor   do   I 

wish  to." 

''  Oh  yes,  yes;  for  you  will  be  the  only  single  one.  Even 
Agnese,  you  see — even  Agnese  .  .  .  ." 

*'  Poll!  you  are  inclined  to  be  merry,"  said  Agnese. 

"I  am,'^indeed;  and  I  think,  at  length,  it's  time.  We've 
passed  through  some  rough  days,  haven't  we,  my  young  ones? 
Some  rough  ones  we've  passed  indeed;  and  the  few  days  we 
have  yet  to  live,  we  may  hope  will  be  a  little  less  melancholy. 
But,  happy  you,  who,  if  no  misfortunes  happen,  have  still  a 
little  time  left  to  talk  over  bygone  sorrows!  I,  poor  old  man 
.  .  .  .  villains  may  die;  one  may  recover  of  the  plague,  but 
there  is  no  help  for  old  age;  and,  as  they  say,  senectus  ipsa 
est  morbus." 

"  Now,  then,"  said  Renzo,  "  you  may  talk  Latin  as  long 
as  you  like,  it  makes  no  difiference  to  me." 

"  You're  at  it  again  with  that  Latin,  are  you?  Well,  well, 
I'll  settle  it  with  you :  when  you  come  before  me  with  this  little 
creature  here,  just  to  hear  you  pronounce  certain  little  words 
in  Latin,  I'll  say  to  you — You  don't  like  Latin;  good-bve. 
Shall  I?" 

''Ah!  but  I  know  what  I  mean,"  replied  Renzo;  "it  isn't 
at  all  that  Latin  there  that  frightens  me — that  is  honest,  sacred 
Latin,  like  that  in  the  mass.  And,  besides,  it  is  necessary 
there  that  you  should  read  what  is  in  the  book.  I'm  talking 
of  that  knavish  Latin,  out  of  church,  that  comes  upon  one 
treacherously,  in  the  very  pith  of  a  conversation.  For  ex- 
ample, now  that  we  are  here,  and  all  is  over,  that  Latin  you 
went  on  pouring  forth,  just  here  in  this  corner,  to  give  me 
to  understand  that  you  couldn't,  and  that  other  things  were 
wanting,  and  I  know  not  what  besides;  please  now  to  trans- 
late it  a  little  for  me." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  wicked  fellow,  hold  your  tongue ; 
don't  stir  up  these  things;  for  if  we  were  now  to  make  up  our 
accounts,  I  don't  know  which  would  be  creditor.  I've  for- 
given all;  let  us  talk  about  it  no  longer;  but  you  certainly 
played  me  some  tricks.  I  don't  wonder  at  you,  because 
you're  a  downright  young  scoundrel;  but  fancy  this  creature, 


THE   BETROTHED 


573 


as  quiet  as  a  mouse,  this  little  saint,  whom  one  would  have 
thought  it  a  sin  to  suspect  and  guard  against.  But  after  all, 
I  know  who  set  her  up  to  it,  I  know,  I  know."  So  saying,  he 
pointed  and  waved  toward  Agnese  the  finger  he  had  at  first 
directed  to  Lucia;  and  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  good- 
temper  and  pleasantry  with  which  he  made  these  reproaches. 
The  tidings  he  had  just  heard  had  given  him  a  freedom  and 
a  talkativeness  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger;  and 
we  should  still  be  far  enough  from  a  conclusion,  if  we  were 
to  relate  all  the  rest  of  this  conversation,  which  he  continued 
to  prolong,  more  than  once  detaining  the  party  when  on  the 
point  of  starting,  and  afterward  stopping  them  again  for  a 
little  while  at  the  very  street  door,  each  time  to  make  some 
jocose  speech. 

The  day  following,  he  received  a  visit  as  unexpected  as  it 
was  gratifying,  from  the  Signor  Marquis  we  have  mentioned; 
a  person  beyond  the  prime  of  manhood,  whose  countenance 
was,  as  it  were,  a  seal  to  what  report  had  said  of  him;  open, 
benevolent,  placid,  humble,  dignfied,  and  with  something  that 
indicated  a  resigned  sadness. 

"  I  come,"  said  he,  "  to  bring  you  the  compliments  of  the 
Cardinal  Archbishop." 

"  Ah,  what  condescension  of  you  both !  " 

"  When  I  was  about  to  take  leave  of  that  incomparable 
man,  who  is  good  enough  to  honour  me  with  his  friendship, 
he  mentioned  to  me  two  young  betrothed  persons  of  this 
parish,  who  have  had  to  suffer  on  account  of  the  unfortunate 
Don  Rodrigo.  His  Lordship  wishes  to  have  some  tidings 
of  them.     Are  they  living?  and  are  their  affairs  settled?" 

"  Everything  is  settled.  Indeed,  I  was  intending  to  write 
about  them  to  his  Eminence;  but  now  that  I  have  the  hon- 
our .  .  .  ." 

"  Are  they  here?  " 

"They  are;  and  they  will  be  man  and  wife  as  soon  as 
possible." 

"  And  I  request  you  to  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  if  I 
can  be  of  any  service  to  them,  and  also  to  instruct  me  in  the 
best  way  of  being  so.  During  this  calamity,  I  have  lost  the 
only  two  sons  I  had,  and  their  mother,  and  have  received 
three  considerable  inheritances.  I  had  a  superfluity  even  be- 
fore; so  that  you  see  it  is  really  rendering  me  a  service  to 
give  me  an  opportunity  of  employing  some  of  my  wealth,  and 
particularly  such  an  opportunity  as  this." 

"May  Heaven  bless  you!  Why  are  not  all  ...  . 
Enough;  I  thank  you  most  heartily,  in  the  name  of  these  my 


574 


MANZONI 


children.  And  since  your  illustrious  Lordship  gives  me  so 
much  encouragement,  it  is  true,  my  Lord,  that  I  have  an  ex- 
pedient to  suggest  which  perhaps  may  not  displease  your 
Lordship.  Allow  me  to  tell  you,  then,  that  these  worthy 
people  are  resolved  to  go  and  settle  themselves  elsewhere,  and 
to  sell  what  little  property  they  have  here:  the  young  man  a 
vineyard  of  about  nine  or  ten  perches,  if  I'm  not  mistaken, 
but  neglected  and  completely  overgrown.  Besides,  he  also 
has  a  cottage,  and  his  bride  another,  now  both,  you  will  see, 
the  abode  of  rats.  A  nobleman  like  your  Lordship  can  not 
know  how  the  poor  fare,  when  they  are  reduced  to  the  neces- 
sity of  disposing  of  their  goods.  It  always  ends  by  falling 
into  the  hands  of  some  knave,  who,  if  occasion  offers,  will 
make  love  to  the  place  for  some  time,  and  as  soon  as  he  finds 
that  its  owner  wants  to  sell  it,  draws  back,  and  pretends  not 
to  wish  for  it;  so  that  he  is  obliged  to  run  after  him,  and  give 
it  him  for  a  piece  of  bread;  particularly,  too,  in  such  circum- 
stances as  these.  My  Lord  Marquis  will  already  have  seen 
the  drift  of  my  remarks.  The  best  charity  your  most  illus- 
trious Lordship  can  afford  to  these  people  is,  to  relieve  them 
from  this  difficulty  by  purchasing  their  little  property.  To 
say  the  truth,  I  have  an  eye  to  my  own  interest,  my  own 
advantage,  in  making  this  suggestion,  the  acquisition  in  my 
parish  of  a  fellow-ruler  like  my  Lord  Marquis;  but  your  Lord- 
ship will  decide  according  to  your  own  judgment;  I  have  only 
spoken  from  obedience." 

The  Marquis  highly  commended  the  suggestion,  returned 
thanks  for  it,  begged  Don  Abbondio  to  be  the  judge  of  the, 
price,  and  to  charge  it  exorbitantly,  and  completed  the  curate's 
amazement  by  proposing  to  go  together  immediately  to  the 
bride's  house,  where  they  should  probably  also  find  the  bride- 
groom. 

By  the  way,  Don  Abbondio,  in  high  glee,  as  may  be  im- 
agined, thought  of  and  mentioned  another  proposal.  "  Since 
your  illustrious  Lordship  is  so  inclined  to  benefit  these  poor 
people,  there  is  another  service  which  you  might  render  them. 
The  young  man  has  an  order  of  arrest  out  against  him,  a 
kind  of  sentence  of  outlawry,  for  some  trifling  fault  he  com- 
mitted in  Milan  two  years  ago,  on  that  day  of  the  great  insur- 
rection, in  which  he  chanced  to  be  implicated,  without  any 
malicious  intentions,  indeed  quite  ignorantly,  like  a  mouse 
caught  in  a  trap.  Nothing  serious,  I  assure  you;  mere  boy- 
ish tricks,  mischievous  pranks;  indeed,  he  is  quite  incapable 
of  committing  an  actual  crime.  I  may  say  so,  for  I  baptized 
him,  and  have  seen  him  grow  up  under  my  eyes.     Besides,  if 


THE   BETROTHED 


575 


your  Lordship  would  take  any  pleasure  In  It,  as  gentlemen 
sometimes  do  in  hearing  these  poor  creatures'  rude  language, 
you  can  make  him  relate  the  account  himself,  and  you  will 
hear.  At  present,  as  it  refers  to  old  matters,  no  one  gives 
him  any  molestation;  and,  as  I  have  said,  he  thinks  of  leaving 
the  state;  but  in  the  course  of  time,  or  in  case  of  returning 
here,  or  going  elsewhere,  some  time  or  other,  you  will  agree 
with  me  that  it  is  always  better  to  find  oneself  clear.  My 
Lord  Marquis  has  influence  in  Milan,  as  is  just,  both  as  a 
noble  cavalier,  and  as  the  great  man  he  really  is  ...  .  No, 
no,  allow  me  to  say  it,  for  truth  will  have  Its  way.  A  recom- 
mendation, a  word  from  a  person  like  yourself,  is  more  than 
is  necessary  to  obtain  a  ready  acquittal." 

"Are  there  not  heavy  charges  against  this  young  man?" 

''Pshaw,  pshaw!  I  would  not  believe  them.  They  made 
a  great  stir  about  it  at  the  moment;  but  I  don't  think  there's 
anything  now  beyond  the  mere  formalities." 

''  If  so,  the  thing  will  be  easy;  and  I  willingly  take  it 
upon  me." 

"  And  yet  you  will  not  let  it  be  said  that  you  are  a  great 
man.  I  say  it,  and  I  will  say  it;  in  spite  of  your  Lordship, 
I  will  say  it.  And  even  If  I  were  to  be  silent,  it  would  be  to 
no  purpose,  because  everybody  says  so:  and  vox  populi,  vox 
Dei." 

They  found  Renzo  and  the  three  women  together,  as  they 
expected.  How  these  felt  we  leave  the  reader  to  imagine; 
but  for  my  part,  I  think  that  the  very  rough  and  bare  walls, 
and  the  windows,  and  the  tables,  and  the  kitchen  utensils, 
must  have  marvelled  at  receiving  among  them  so  extraordi- 
nary a  guest.  He  encouraged  the  conversation,  by  talking 
of  the  Cardinal  and  their  other  matters  with  unreserved  cor- 
diality, and  at  the  same  time  with  great  delicacy.  By  and  by 
he  came  to  the  proposal.  Don  Abbondio,  being  requested  by 
him  to  name  the  price,  came  forward;  and,  after  a  few  ges- 
tures and  apologies — that  It  wasn't  in  his  line,  and  that  he 
could  only  guess  at  random,  and  that  he  spoke  out  of  obedi- 
ence, and  that  he  left  It  to  him,  mentioned  what  he  thought 
a  most  extravagant  sum.  The  purchaser  said  that,  for  his 
part,  he  was  extremely  well  satisfied,  and,  as  if  he  had  misun- 
derstood, repeated  double  the  amount.  He  would  not  hear 
of  rectifying  the  mistake,  and  cut  short  and  concluded  all  fur- 
ther conversation,  by  inviting  the  party  to  dinner  at  his  palace 
the  day  after  the  wedding,  when  the  deeds  should  be  properly 
drawn  out. 

Ah! — said  Don  Abbondio  afterward  to  himself,  when  he 


576 


MANZONI 


had  returned  home — if  the  plague  did  things  in  this  way 
ahvays  and  everywhere,  it  would  really  be  a  sin  to  speak  ill 
of  it:  we  might  almost  wish  for  one  every  generation;  and  be 
content  that  people  should  be  in  league  to  produce  a  malady. 

The  dispensation  arrived,  the  acquittal  arrived,  that  blessed 
day  arrived:  the  bride  and  bridegroom  went  in  triumphal  se- 
curity to  that  very  church,  where,  with  Don  Abbondio's  own 
mouth,  they  were  declared  man  and  wife.  Another,  and  far 
more  singular  triumph,  was  the  going  next  day  to  the  palace; 
and  I  leave  my  readers  to  conjecture  the  thoughts  which 
must  have  passed  through  their  minds  on  ascending  that  ac- 
clivity, on  entering  that  doorway;  and  the  observations  that 
each  must  have  made,  according  to  his  or  her  natural  dispo- 
sition. I  will  only  mention  that,  in  the  midst  of  their  rejoic- 
ing, one  or  other  more  than  once  made  the  remark,  that  poor 
Father  Cristoforo  was  still  wanting  to  complete  their  happi- 
ness. "  Yet  for  himself,"  added  they,  "  he  is  assuredly  better 
of¥  than  we  are." 

The  nobleman  received  them  with  great  kindness,  con- 
ducted them  into  a  fine  large  servants'-hall,  and  seated  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  at  table  with  Agnese  and  their  Milanese 
friend;  and  before  withdrawing  to  dine  elsewhere  with  Don 
Abbondio,  wished  to  assist  a  little  at  this  first  banquet,  and 
even  helped  to  wait  upon  them.  I  hope  it  will  enter  into  no 
one's  head  to  say  that  it  would  have  been  a  more  simple  plan 
to  have  made  at  once  but  one  table.  I  have  described  him 
as  an  excellent  man,  but  not  as  an  original,  as  it  would  now-a- 
days  be  called;  I  have  said  that  he  was  humble,  but  not  that 
he  was  a  prodigy  of  humility.  He  possessed  enough  of  this 
virtue  to  put  himself  beneath  these  good  people,  but  not  on 
an  equality  with  them. 

After  the  two  dinners,  the  contract  was  drawn  out  by  the 
hands  of  a  lawyer,  not,  however,  Azzecca-Garbugli.  ^  He,  I 
mean  his  outward  man,  was,  and  still  is,  at  Canterelli.  And 
for  those  who  are  unacquainted  with  that  neighbourhood,  I 
suppose  some  explanation  of  this  information  is  here  ne- 
cessary. 

A  little  higher  up  than  Lecco,  perhaps  half  a  mile  or  so,, 
and  almost  on  the  confines  of  another  country,  named  Cas- 
tello,  is  a  place  called  Canterelli,  where  two  ways  cross;  and 
at  one  corner  of  the  square  space  is  seen  an  eminence,  like 
an  artificial  hillock,  with  a  cross  on  the  summit.  This  is  noth- 
ing else  but  a  heap  of  the  bodies  of  those  who  died  in  this  con- 
tagion. Tradition,  it  is  true,  simply  says,  died  of  the  conta- 
gion: but  it  must  be  this  one,  and  none  other,  as  it  was  the 


THE   BETROTHED 


577 


last  and  most  destructive  of  which  any  memory  remains. 
And  we  know  that  unassisted  traditions  always  say  too  little 
by  themselves. 

They  felt  no  inconvenience  on  their  return,  except  that 
Renzo  was  rather  incommoded  by  the  weight  of  the  money 
he  carried  away  with  him.  But,  as  the  reader  knows,  he  had 
had  far  greater  troubles  in  his  life  than  this.  I  say  nothing  of 
the  disquiet  of  his  mind,  which  was  by  no  means  trifling,  in 
deciding  upon  the  best  means  of  employing  it.  To  have  seen 
the  different  projects  that  passed  through  that  mind — the  fan- 
cies— the  debates;  to  have  heard  the  pros  and  cons  for  agri- 
culture or  business,  it  was  as  if  two  academies  of  the  last  cen- 
tury had  there  met  together.  And  the  affair  was  to  Renzo 
far  more  overwhelming  and  perplexing,  because,  since  he  was 
but  a  solitary  individual,  it  could  not  be  said  to  him — ^Why 
need  you  choose  at  all?  both  one  and  the  other,  each  in  its 
own  turn;  for  in  substance  they  are  the  same;  and,  like  one's 
legs,  they  are  two  things  which  go  better  together  than  one 
alone. 

Nothing  was  now  thought  of,  but  packing  up  and  setting 
off  on  their  journey;  the  Tramaglino  family  to  their  new 
country,  and  the  widow  to  Milan.  The  tears,  the  thanks,  the 
promises  of  going  to  see  each  other,  were  many.  Not  less 
tender,  even  to  tears,  was  the  separation  of  Renzo  and  the 
family  from  his  hospitable  friend;  nor  let  it  be  thought  that 
matters  went  on  coldly  even  with  Don  Abbondio.  The  three 
poor  creatures  had  always  preserved  a  certain  respectful  at- 
tachment to  their  curate;  and  he,  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
had  always  wished  them  well.  Such  happy  circumstances  as 
these  entangle  the  affections. 

Should  any  one  ask  if  there  was  no  grief  felt  in  thus  tear- 
ing themselves  from  their  native  country — from  their  beloved 
mountains;  it  may  be  answered  that  there  was:  for  sorrow, 
I  venture  to  say,  is  mingled,  more  or  less,  with  everything. 
We  must,  however,  believe  that  it  was  not  very  profound, 
since  they  might  have  spared  themselves  from  it  by  remain- 
ing at  home,  now  that  the  two  great  obstacles,  Don  Rodrigo 
and  the  order  for  Renzo's  apprehension,  were  both  taken  away. 
But  all  three  had  been  for  some  time  accustomed  to  look 
upon  the  country  to  which  they  were  going  as  their  own. 
Renzo  had  recommended  it  to  the  women,  by  telling  them 
of  the  facilities  which  it  afforded  to  artificers,  and  a  hundred 
things  about  the  fine  way  in  which  they  could  live  there.  Be- 
sides, they  had  all  experienced  some  very  bitter  moments  in 
that  home  upon  which  they  were  now  turning  their  backs; 


578 


MANZONI 


and  mournful  recollections  always  end  in  spoiling  to  the  mind 
the  places  which  recall  them.  And  if  these  should  be  its  na- 
tive home,  there  is,  perhaps,  in  such  recollections,  something 
still  more  keen  and  poignant.  Even  an  infant,  says  our  manu- 
script, reclines  willingly  on  his  nurse's  bosom,  and  seeks  with 
confidence  and  avidity  the  breast  which  has  hitherto  sweetly 
nourished  him;  but  if,  in  order  to  wean  him,  she  tinctures  it 
with  wormwood,  the  babe  withdraws  the  lip,  then  returns  to 
try  it  once  more,  but  at  length,  after  all,  refuses  it — weeping, 
indeed,  but  still  refusing  it. 

What,  however,  will  the  reader  now  say,  on  hearing  that 
they  had  scarcely  arrived,  and  settled  themselves  in  their 
adopted  country,  before  Renzo  found  there  annoyances  all 
prepared  for  him!  Do  you  pity  him?  but  so  little  serves  to 
disturb  a  state  of  happiness!  This  is  a  short  sketch  of  the 
matter. 

The  talk  that  had  been  there  made  about  Lucia,  for  some 
time  before  her  arrival;  the  knowledge  that  Renzo  had  suf- 
fered so  much  for  her  sake,  and  had  always  been  constant  and 
faithful;  perhaps  a  word  or  two  from  some  friend  who  was 
partial  to  him  and  all  belonging  to  him — had  created  a  kind 
of  curiosity  to  see  the  young  girl,  and  a  kind  of  expectation 
of  seeing  her  very  beautiful.  Now  we  know  what  expectation 
is:  imaginative,  credulous,  confident;  afterward,  when  the 
trial  comes,  difficult  to  satisfy,  disdainful;  never  finding  what 
she  had  counted  upon,  because,  in  fact,  she  knew  not  her  own 
mind;  and  pitilessly  exacting  severe  payment  for  the  loveli- 
ness so  unmeaningly  lavished  on  her  object. 

When  this  Lucia  appeared,  many  who  had  perhaps  thought 
that  she  must  certainly  have  golden  locks,  and  cheeks  blush- 
ing like  the  rose,  and  a  pair  of  eyes  one  more  beautiful  than 
the  other,  and  what  not  besides,  began  to  shrug  their  shoul- 
ders, turn  up  their  noses,  and  say:  "  Is  this  she?  After  such 
a  time,  after  so  much  talk,  one  expected  something  better! 
What  is  she,  after  all?  A  peasant,  like  hundreds  more.  Why, 
there  are  plenty  everywhere  as  good  as  she  is,  and  far  better 
too."  Then,  descending  to  particulars,  one  remarked  one  de- 
fect, and  another,  another;  nor  were  there  wanting  some  who 
considered  her  perfectly  ugly. 

As,  however,  no  one  thought  of  telling  Renzo  these  things 
to  his  face,  so  far  there  was  no  great  harm  done.  They  who 
really  did  harm,  they  who  widened  the  breach,  were  some 
persons  who  reported  them  to  him:  and  Renzo — what  else 
could  be  expected? — took  them  very  much  to  heart.  He 
began  to  muse  upon  them,  and  to  make  them  matters  of  dis- 


THE   BETROTHED 


579 


cussion,  both  with  those  who  talked  to  him  on  the  subject, 
and  more  at  length  in  his  own  mind. — What  does  it  matter  to 
you?  And  who  told  you  to  expect  anything?  did  I  ever  talk 
to  you  about  her?  did  I  ever  tell  you  she  was  beautiful?  And 
when  you  asked  me  if  she  was,  did  I  ever  say  anything  in  an- 
swer, but  that  she  was  a  good  girl?  She's  a  peasant!  Did 
I  ever  tell  you  that  I  would  bring  you  here  a  princess?  She 
displeases  you!  Don't  look  at  her,  then.  You've  some  beau- 
tiful women:  look  at  them. 

Only  look  how  a  trifle  may  sometimes  suffice  to  decide  a 
man's  state  for  his  whole  life.  Had  Renzo  been  obliged  to 
spend  his  in  that  neighbourhood,  agreeably  to  his  first  inten- 
tions, he  would  have  got  on  but  very  badly.  From  being 
himself  displeased,  he  had  now  become  displeasing.  He  was 
on  bad  terms  with  everybody,  because  everybody  might  be 
one  of  Lucia's  criticisers.  Not  that  he  actually  offended 
against  civility;  but  we  know  how  many  sly  things  may  be 
done  without  transgressing  the  rules  of  common  politeness: 
quite  sufficient  to  give  vent  to  one's  spleen.  There  was  some- 
thing sardonic  in  his  whole  behaviour;  he,  too,  found  some- 
thing to  criticise  in  everything:  if  only  there  were  two  suc- 
cessive days  of  bad  weather,  he  would  immediately  say,  **  Ay, 
indeed,  in  this  country!  "  In  short,  I  may  say,  he  was  already 
only  borne  with  by  a  certain  number  of  persons,  even  by 
those  who  had  at  first  wished  him  well;  and  in  course  of  time, 
from  one  thing  to  another,  he  would  have  gone  on  till  he  had 
found  himself,  so  to  say,  in  a  state  of  hostility  with  almost  the 
whole  population,  without  being  able,  probably,  himself,  to 
assign  the  primary  cause,  or  ascertain  the  root  from  which 
such  an  evil  had  sprung. 

But  it  might  be  said  that  the  plague  had  undertaken  to 
amend  all  Renzo's  errors.  That  scourge  had  carried  off  the 
owner  of  another  silk-mill,  situated  almdst  at  the  gates  of  Ber- 
gamo; and  the  heir,  a  dissolute  young  fellow,  finding  nothing 
in  this  edifice  that  could  afford  him  any  diversion,  proposed, 
or  rather  was  anxious,  to  dispose  of  it,  even  at  half  its  value; 
but  he  wanted  the  money  down  upon  the  spot,  that  he  might 
instantly  expend  it  with  unproductive  prodigality.  The  mat- 
ter having  come  to  Bortolo's  ears,  he  immediately  went  to  see 
it:  tried  to  treat  about  it:  a  more  advantageous  bargain  could 
not  have  been  hoped  for;  but  that  condition  of  ready  money 
spoiled  all,  because  his  whole  property,  slowly  made  up  out 
of  his  savings,  was  still  far  from  reaching  the  required  sum. 
Leaving  the  question,  therefore,  still  open,  he  returned  in 
haste,  communicated  the  affair  to  his  cousin,  and  proposed 


58o 


MANZONI 


to  take  it  in  partnership.  So  capital  an  agreement  cut  short 
all  Renzo's  economical  dubitations,  so  that  he  quickly  de- 
cided upon  business,  and  complied  with  the  proposal.  They 
went  together,  and  the  bargain  was  concluded.  When,  then, 
the  new  owners  came  to  live  upon  their  own  possessions, 
Lucia,  who  was  here  expected  by  no  one,  not  only  did  not  go 
thither  subjected  to  criticisms,  but,  we  may  say,  was  not  dis- 
pleasing to  anybody;  and  Renzo  found  out  that  it  had  been 
said  by  more  than  one,  "  Have  you  seen  that  pretty  she-block- 
head who  has  come  hither?  "  The  substantive  was  allowed 
to  pass  in  the  epithet. 

And  even  from  the  annoyance  he  had  experienced  in  the 
other  country,  he  derived  some  useful  instruction.  Before 
that  time  he  had  been  rather  inconsiderate  in  criticising  other 
people's  wives,  and  all  belonging  to  them.  Now  he  under- 
stood that  words  make  one  impression  in  the  mouth,  and  an- 
other in  the  ear;  and  he  accustomed  himself  rather  more  to 
Hsten  within  to  his  own  before  uttering  them. 

We  must  not,  however,  suppose  that  he  had  no  little  vexa- 
tions even  here.  Man  (says  our  anonymous  author — and  we 
already  know,  by  experience,  that  he  had  rather  a  strange 
pleasure  in  drawing  similes — but  bear  with  it  this  once,  for 
it  is  likely  to  be  the  last  time),  man,  so  long  as  he  is  in  this 
world,  is  like  a  sick  person  lying  upon  a  bed  more  or  less  un- 
comfortable, who  sees  around  him  other  beds  nicely  made  to 
outward  appearance,  smooth,  and  level,  and  fancies  that  they 
must  be  most  comfortable  resting-places.  He  succeeds  in 
making  an  exchange;  but  scarcely  is  he  placed  in  another, 
before  he  begins,  as  he  presses  it  down,  to  feel  in  one  place  a 
sharp  point  pricking  him,  in  another  a  hard  lump:  in  short, 
we  come  to  almost  the  same  story  over  again.  And  for  this 
reason,  adds  he,  we  ought  to  aim  rather  at  doing  well,  than 
being  well;  and  thus  we  should  come,  in  the  end,  even  to  be 
better.  This  sketch,  although  somewhat  parabolic,  and  in  the 
style  of  the  seventeenth  century,  is,  in  substance,  true.  How- 
ever (continues  he  again),  our  good  friends  had  no  longer  any 
sorrows  and  troubles  of  similar  kind  and  severity  to  those  we 
have  related:  their  life  was,  from  this  time  forward,  one  of 
the  calmest,  happiest,  and  most  enviable  of  lives ;  so  that,  were 
I  obliged  to  give  an  account  of  it,  it  would  tire  the  reader  to 
death.  Business  went  on  capitally.  At  the  beginning  there 
was  a  little  difficulty  from  the  scarcity  of  workmen,  and  from 
the  ill-conduct  and  pretensions  of  the  few  that  still  remained. 
Orders  were  published,  which  limited  the  price  of  labour:  in 
spite  of  this  help,  things  rallied  again;  because,  after  all,  how 


'  THE   BETROTHED  581 

could  it  be  otherwise?  Another  rather  more  judicious  order 
arrived  from  Venice — exemption,  for  ten  years,  from  all 
charges,  civil  and  personal,  for  foreigners  who  would  come  to 
reside  in  the  state.  To  our  friends  this  was  another  ad- 
vantage. 

Before  the  first  year  of  their  marriage  was  completed  a 
beautiful  little  creature  came  to  light;  and,  as  if  it  had  been 
made  on  purpose  to  give  Renzo  an  early  opportunity  of  ful- 
filling that  magnanimous  promise  of  his,  it  was  a  little  girl. 
It  may  be  believed  that  it  was  named  Maria.  Afterward,  in 
the  course  of  time,  came  I  know  not  how  many  others,  of  both 
sexes;  and  Agnese  was  busy  enough  in  carrying  them  about, 
one  after  the  other,  calling  them  little  rogues,  and  imprint- 
ing upon  their  faces  hearty  kisses,  which  left  a  white  mark 
for  ever  so  long  afterward.  They  were  all  very  well  inclined; 
and  Renzo  would  have  them  all  learn  to  read  and  write,  say- 
ing, that  since  this  amusement  was  in  fashion,  they  ought  at 
least  to  take  advantage  of  it. 

The  finest  thing  was  to  hear  him  relate  his  adventures: 
and  he  always  finished  by  enumerating  the  great  things  he 
had  learnt  from  them,  for  the  better  government  of  himself  in 
future.  "  IVe  learnt,"  he  would  say,  "  not  to  meddle  in  dis- 
turbances: I've  learnt  not  to  make  speeches  in  the  street: 
I've  learnt  not  to  drink  more  than  I  want:  I've  learnt  not  to 
hold  the  knocker  of  a  door  in  my  hand,  when  crazy-headed 
people  are  about:  and  I've  learnt  not  to  buckle  a  little  bell  to 
my  foot,  before  thinking  of  the  consequences."  And  a  hun- 
dred other  things. 

Lucia  did  not  find  fault  with  the  doctrine  itself,  but  she  was 
not  satisfied  with  it:  it  seemed  to  her,  in  a  confused  way,  that 
something  was  still  wanting  to  it.  By  dint  of  hearing  the 
same  song  over  and  over  again,  and  meditating  on  it  every 
time,  *'  And  I,"  said  she  one  day  to  her  moralizer,  "  what 
ought  I  to  have  learnt?  I  did  not  go  to  look  for  troubles: 
it  is  they  that  came  to  look  for  me.  Though  you  wouldn't 
say,"  added  she,  smiling  sweetly,  "  that  my  error  was  in  wish- 
ing you  well,  and  promising  myself  to  you." 

Renzo  at  first  was  quite  puzzled.  After  a  long  discussion 
and  inquiry  together,  they  conclude  that  troubles  certain- 
ly often  arise  from  occasion  afforded  by  ourselves;  but  that 
the  most  cautious  and  blameless  conduct  can  not  secure  us 
from  them;  and  that,  when  they  come,  whether  by  our  own 
fault  or  not,  confidence  in  God  alleviates  them,  and  makes 
the  conducive  to  a  better  life.  This  conclusion,  though 
come  to  by  poor  people,  seemed  to  us  so  right  and  just,  that 


582 


MANZONI 


we  have  resolved  to  put  it  here,  as  the  moral  of  our  whole 
story. 

If  this  same  story  has  given  the  reader  any  pleasure,  he 
must  thank  the  anonymous  author,  and,  in  some  measure,  his 
reviser,  for  the  gratification.  But  if,  instead,  we  have  only 
succeeded  in  wearying  him,  he  may  rest  assured  that  we  did 
not  do  so  on  purpose. 


THE   END 


i 


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